


in my head we do everything right

by Annerb



Series: Armistice Series [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Content, Canon Relationships, Established Relationship, F/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-War, Slytherin Ginny Weasley, Women Being Awesome, being an adult is hard, thar be smuttiness here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2019-09-04 02:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 154,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16773967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annerb/pseuds/Annerb
Summary: It’s not as easy as it sounds, going from hypotheticals to reality. Harry and Ginny navigate life after Hogwarts. Third in the Armistice Series.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Bethany, TimeShifter, Sorcerer's Muse, and weatheredskies for the betas, encouragement, and general listening to me whinge and complain. Couldn't do it without you.
> 
> Please note that the rating for this installment in the series has gone up! Read on as you like.

“I’m sorry the ride is so long,” Mrs. Granger says. “I’m sure you’re used to much…faster methods.”

Her voice is strained, and Harry imagines that has something to do with the way Molly has been saying well-intentioned but rather thoughtless things ever since they left the Burrow an hour ago. They still have two hours to go, the car packed tight between six people and their luggage.

“It’s actually kind of nice,” Ginny says. “You get to see so much more scenery this way. I think we tend to forget how much of the world is out here sometimes. Wouldn’t you say, Mum?”

Molly glances back at her, clearly picking up on her daughter’s pointed tone. “Yes, dear. Of course. It’s very interesting!” 

Mrs. Granger’s shoulders relax, and Harry isn’t surprised that Ginny knew the exact right thing to say, both to make Mrs. Granger feel better, and to remind her mum to be more thoughtful.

Hermione turns around where she sits between Molly and Mrs. Granger in the wide front seat. She shoots Ginny a grateful smile.

Ginny just grins in response, giving her a wink. With that, she turns her attention back to the book in her lap, her fingers tucked between the fluttering pages. _To The Lighthouse_ , the cover says. Seems appropriate considering their destination.

After another few kilometers, Ginny stretches her back, her arm brushing against his. She isn’t still long before she fidgets again, bending her neck and pulling at her seat belt.

“All right?” Harry says as she continues to squirm.

Shifting, Ginny kicks her shoe off, tucking her bare foot up under her knee. Which means that her bent leg is now lying across the top of his.

“Sorry, Potter,” she said with a challenging glint in her eye. “You’ll just have to put up with it.”

He has absolutely no issue with it, but still does his best to look vaguely annoyed when Ron gives him a sympathizing look.

“I suppose that’s what you get, trying to be all stupidly gallant by taking the middle seat,” Ron says.

Ginny lets out a soft noise that sounds suspiciously like a scoff. Which, considering Harry’s real motives for claiming this spot in the car, he can’t really blame her for.

Besides, Ginny’s the one who kept Molly from casting a subtle enlarging charm with a look meant to remind her that this is a Muggle vacation. The Grangers are always adapting to their world, she pointed out. It isn’t much to ask them to do things the Muggle way for a week.

So here he is, wedged in between Ron and Ginny, and not minding one bit.

“Did you go on many beach vacations as a child, Harry?” Mrs. Granger asks.

“No. Not really,” Harry says, not bothering to mention that he pretty much never went on vacation of any kind. Unless that one night on that horrid island when Vernon tried to outrun his Hogwarts letters counts.

“Your aunt and uncle aren’t a fan of the seaside?” Mrs. Granger asks, aware enough of Harry’s situation to know he’s an orphan, but not enough to know how ridiculous that question is.

He tries to imagine it, the Dursleys sitting on a beach. With all that that sand and people running about. “Um, they went to Majorca a few times. But I always stayed behind with Mrs. Figg.”

Ron snorts. “Better off, if you ask me.”

“You never had to put up with her cats,” Harry says.

They both laugh, and that feels better.

Ginny’s knee presses gently down on his leg, and it takes a lot of control not to reach out and touch the soft skin so tantalizingly within reach.

Maybe taking the middle seat was a bad idea after all.

“We went sometimes as kids,” Ginny says. “The whole lot of us. Building castles and dragons out of sand, throwing each other in the water. Building bonfires right there on the beach.”

“Sounds fun,” he says.

Her nose wrinkles. “Sand gets everywhere. I burn and peel and generally look a fright.”

Harry tries to think of something safe to say, but Ron gets there first.

“When do you not look a fright?”

Harry barely registers Ginny’s eyes narrowing dangerously before she practically lies on his lap as she leans across to wallop her brother with her book.

“Hey!” Ron says, indignant.

Ginny isn’t particularly put off, the paperback smacking him a few other choice places much to Ron’s continued howling annoyance.

“Children!” Molly says. 

Harry bites back a smile, his hand on Ginny’s arm as he doesn’t try particularly hard to stop her from heaping abuse on Ron. Still, he supposes he should at least _look_ like he is. This is not just an excuse to touch her.

Nope. Not at all.

“You’re squishing poor Harry,” Molly yells.

Harry catches Hermione’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Honestly,” she says, her lips twitching.

“Oh, look,” Mrs. Granger says loudly over the squabbling siblings, “a cow!”

They all look up at the bizarre non sequitur, quietly watching the cow in question as they drive by.

It at least has the intended effect of distracting Ginny from smacking Ron. Climbing back off Harry’s lap, she settles into her reading, her knee still firmly lying on his.

The car rumbles along, sunlight dappling through the passing trees. After a while, Ron’s head drops onto Harry’s shoulder, mouth agape as he sleeps. Ginny turns another page, the wind through the window lifting up a strand of her hair to tickle across Harry’s arm.

 _So_ , he thinks, _this is a vacation_.

* * *

The beach house the Grangers rented sits on top of a bluff a few blocks from the ocean. The evening air is salty and cool, and brings with it the call of seagulls. Standing at the edge of the cliff, Ginny takes in the view, stealing a moment to breathe deep and enjoy the quiet after a long afternoon spent in a tightly packed car.

She finds it difficult to look away from the ocean, the drag and surge, the endless stretch of deep green water that feels a bit like home. It’s different than Shell Cottage. No rolling dunes, but rather quickly dropping cliffs and crowded blocks of houses. Somewhere nearby a child is yelling for his mum. It feels a bit more…alive.

She takes several more long minutes to stare out at the ocean before finally returning to the house.

Walking up the drive, she sees Harry pulling a suitcase from the boot. He gives her a warm smile that has her wondering how long she’ll have to wait to find a moment alone with him. Ron bursts out of the house complaining about something, Harry ducking his head.

“Mum’s got you and Hermione in the attic,” Ron informs her. He looks more than a little put out by that fact.

“Okay,” she says.

Grabbing her bag out of the boot, she carries it into the house. Ron and Harry disappear into a doorway off the small sitting area.

There are two more bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor. Molly and Mrs. Granger are huddled together at the foot of the last rickety stairwell up to what Ginny supposes is the attic.

“It’s called a ward,” Molly is saying. “It will keep anyone but the girls from going up to their room.”

“Well,” Mrs. Granger says, looking down at Molly’s wand. “If you think it’s necessary, I suppose a little magic won’t hurt.”

They’ve already put the boys on the ground floor with the parents’ rooms on the floor between. But sure, why not ward it as well?

“Subtle,” Ginny says, hefting her bag in preparation for heaving up another flight. “Like damsels in a tower.”

Molly glares at her as she passes.

“Surprised you didn’t bring a dragon along!” she yells back down the stairs.

“Don’t tempt me,” Molly bellows back.

The attic is cramped but brightly painted, the roof angling down sharply on either side, a twin bed tucked under each eave. Ginny drops her bag onto a chair, crossing over to the small dormer window above her bed. If she stands on her tiptoes she can just make out a small sliver of the ocean through the trees and buildings.

Leaving the window, she sits on the edge of her bed, leaning back on her hands and watching Hermione unpack her suitcase.

Ginny swings her foot over the edge of the bed, considering her brother’s girlfriend. “Is it really possible our mums don't think you two are already hooking up?”

“Ginny,” Hermione hisses, her face blushing a deep red.

She doesn’t exactly deny it though, which is telling in its own way.

Well, Ginny thinks as she flops back on her bed, if she’s going to be kept from snogging her boyfriend as often as she’d like, at least she won’t be alone in her misery.

After a long day of traveling and the stress of preparing for the trip, they all go to bed rather early, Hermione and Ginny talking quietly in the dark. It reminds her of those summers past that feel so far away now.

Predictably, Hermione is just as obsessed with her NEWTs as ever, despite the fact that it’s been over a week since they finished them. Ginny just doesn’t see any point in stressing about it.

“There’s literally nothing we can do but wait, Hermione,” she says.

Hermione makes a dismissive sound. “Easy for you to say. You’re not even going to use them anyway, are you? Playing Quidditch?”

“Yes,” Ginny says, “because Quidditch is such a steady, lifelong career.” Even if she does manage to get on a team, she could get injured, she could get cut, she could just...get old. There will always be an after at some point, no matter what happens.

There always is.

“I suppose,” Hermione says, sounding thoughtful.

Ginny rolls over on her side. “You, on the other hand, are a nineteen-year-old with a bloody Order of Merlin. You’ll probably have your pick of positions. Even if you don’t pass a single NEWT.”

“Maybe if I weren’t a Muggleborn,” she says, voice muffled in the dark of their room.

Ginny can’t help but think that she may very well have a point. Just another reason Hermione’s occasional...overzealousness to prove herself is understandable, even if still irritating.

“Need me to braid your hair?” Ginny offers in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Hermione laughs. “Go to sleep, Ginny.”

Just as the sky starts to lighten with false dawn the next morning, Ginny dresses quietly so as not to wake Hermione and heads down to the beach. After a short stretch, she sets out running down the shore.

She runs for a few kilometers before turning back, finally stopping in a small cove just up from the town. Leaning forward to rest her hands on her knees, she tries to catch her breath, her thighs burning with the effort of the run. She let herself slip during the chaos of the NEWTs. And the distraction of having Harry around.

She’ll just have to get back into her patterns as quickly as possible, she promises herself. She can’t miss her chance.

Stretching her hands up over her head, she takes in the view. The sky is still rosy with the last of dawn, the beach deserted. It’s really quite beautiful.

Ready to head back towards the cottage for a shower and breakfast, she almost passes the small pile of clothing without noticing it. Moving closer, she sees that there is also a carefully folded towel, and on top of that, a very familiar looking pair of glasses.

Ginny turns to the ocean, scanning the water until she locates someone smoothly pulling their body through the water, strokes sure and steady.

She smiles, finding herself thinking of the summer before her first year at Hogwarts. It seemed weird at the time, discovering that Harry didn’t know how to swim. Only now does she understand that was probably because the Dursleys never though he was important enough to teach. But Ron, upon learning this, insisted that their dad make up for this gap in his education.

She remembers Harry standing on the edge of the pond, small and unnaturally gaunt to think back on it now, trying not to look terrified. Ron flicked him playfully with water until he looked less scared. Even when he eventually dared to get into the water, Arthur holding him as he taught him to float and kick his feet, Harry always looked like he was just waiting for him to let go, to sink down into water, like he knew better than to trust completely.

You wouldn’t know any of that to look at him now. His arms arc over his head, reaching forward for the water and pulling it smoothly behind him. He looks like he’s been swimming his whole life.

She gently stretches her protesting muscles while keeping one eye on his progress. When he finally seems to be heading back to shore, Ginny carefully moves Harry’s glasses and settles herself down on top of the folded towel, legs stretched casually out in front of her.

He walks out of the water, a simple silhouette against the brightening sky. It takes him a moment to notice her, his eyes squinting as he tries to make her out.

“Hey,” he says, giving her a pleased smile that makes her stomach do a little flip, and honestly, that should probably stop at some point. Right? 

“Hey,” she manages in response, sounding completely cool and calm.

Really.

They regard each other for a long moment, Harry still wet and dripping in the cool air, and Ginny not even trying to pretend she isn’t staring.

“You’re sitting on my towel,” he points out.

“So I am,” she says, rather distracted by the view. Yet another benefit of a beach vacation.

He blinks owlishly at her, and she can tell he’s trying to figure out this little game she’s playing. “Are you going to give it to me?”

Her eyes trail down his body, noting especially the way his skin puckers with cold. The way his trunks are clinging to his legs. “I’m sorry?”

She manages to drag her eyes back up to his face and he’s watching her with his eyebrows lifted.

She shrugs, feeling her face warm. “Can’t blame a girl for looking.”

He gives her a crooked little smile, moving closer. He leans down towards her, his hands bracing on his knees, and she watches water drip down his arms and chest. She licks her lips.

“Ginny,” he says, voice pitched low.

“Yes?”

He leans in even closer, Ginny feeling something hot and tight rise in her chest as she pulls her legs up under her to sit taller. His lips part, her heart rate speeding up in anticipation.

The only warning Ginny has is the slight sparkle in Harry’s eye, and then he’s shaking his hair like a dog.

Ginny shrieks as the cold water hits her, scrambling to her feet.

Rather than reclaiming his now liberated towel, Harry runs after her, the two of them laughing and stumbling over the sand. Harry eventually catches her, picking her up from behind and giving her a big, wet hug.

“Oh, you’ll pay for this,” she promises as she feels cold seawater seep into her shirt.

Harry steps back with a laugh, spinning her around until she’s facing him. “I look forward to it.”

Then he’s kissing her, his lips salty and cool against hers.

Honestly, Ginny’s opinion of the beach is improving by the moment.

* * *

Harry is feeling supremely content. He’s sitting on a beach with his best mates, waiting for his girlfriend to show up. There’s absolutely nothing pressing. There’s no homework, no tests, no work, no looming doom of any kind.

Just sun and sand and water.

He closes his eyes, thinking about his dawn run-in with Ginny the day before. They hadn’t had much time together since then, everything being a flurry of exploring the town and picking up supplies, and Ron dragging them to a nearby boardwalk on the shore. Today, they have decided to do nothing more than sunbathe and swim. To relax and decompress. Not that Hermione doesn’t have a paperback tucked under her towel.

Harry shifts, wondering when Ginny is going to show up.

“I can’t believe how hot it is,” she says from behind him as if his thoughts have summoned her. “Anyone else ready for a swim?”

Harry turns to look at her, his response dying in his throat.

_Holy fucking god._

Ginny wears a pale pink bikini that is really little more than a few scraps of cloth tied together with string, as far as he can tell. Acres and acres of fair skin are bare to the sun. Harry feels every last drop of blood drain out of his brain as he gapes at her.

“Merlin’s balls, Ginny!” Ron nearly shouts, startling Harry enough for him to remember himself.

“What?” she asks, casually twisting her hair up on top of her head in a bun like she somehow has no idea what he is talking about.

“Knickers would be more covering!” Ron sputters.

Ginny’s lips quirk. “Clearly you’ve never seen my knickers.”

Oh, and there is a visual Harry doesn’t need right now. He closes his eyes in pain. It’s official. Ginny Weasley is the most evil person to ever live.

“I’m ready for a swim,” Hermione says, no doubt attempting to defuse the situation before Ginny jinxes Ron in front of all these Muggles. That might be hard to explain to the Ministry.

Hermione pulls her shirt off to reveal a much more covering bathing costume, but it apparently still derails Ron enough that he just nods along and jumps to his feet, his sister’s attire forgotten.

“Harry?” he asks, distractedly glancing back at him as he drops his shirt to the blanket.

“I’m good here,” Harry somehow manages to say, even though freezing cold ocean water would probably be a good idea right about now. He’s just not sure he can trust himself within 20 yards of Ginny.

She smirks back over her shoulder at him as if she knows this, and then follows Ron and Hermione down to the water. She seems to be swinging her hips more than usual (not that he’s looking), and it’s only then that he remembers her promise of revenge.

“Damn,” he mutters.

Her laughter sweeps up behind her as she jogs down to the water’s edge.

Harry remains sitting, watching Ron and Ginny get in a splashing fight, Hermione darting with a squeal between them. The bikini isn’t any less bothersome at this distance. 

It’s maybe fifteen minutes, even if it feels far longer, before Ginny heads back up towards him, leaving Ron and Hermione treading out in the water, only their heads visible over the swell of the waves.

She stops directly in front of him, pulling her hair over one shoulder. She twists it, seawater drizzling into the sand.

Harry thinks if it were possible for a person to spontaneously combust, he’d have already done it.

Spreading a towel next to him, Ginny stretches out on her stomach. This close, he can see drops of water working their way over her skin, the fine sheen of goose bumps on her arms.

“Not fair,” he mumbles, painfully aware that Ron and Hermione can see them.

Ginny turns her head so she’s looking at him. “It’s not about fair, Potter, it’s about _winning_.” She gives him a fierce look, one that shoots straight down his belly, and god, he loves that she can be just as stupidly competitive as him sometimes.

“Somehow,” he says, “I have never wanted to snog you more than I do right now.”

Her grin is nearly blinding. “I suppose there’s no reason we can’t find a way for both of us to win.”

He dares to drag a finger from the tie at her hip up to the strap of her top, her skin cool under his touch. She shivers, dragging her lower lip into her mouth.

“Cold?” he asks.

“Or something,” she murmurs, a flush spreading down her neck towards her chest.

He leans closer. “Just so you know, I’m about two seconds from kissing you, damn who might see.”

She licks her lips. “Then I suppose you’d better go take a nice cold swim,” she says, her fingers catching his.

“Harry!” Ron shouts.

Harry sighs, closing his eyes. “Yeah!” he says, heaving himself to his feet with a curse.

He can feel her eyes on him as he goes.

* * *

Over lunch, Ron pulls out the thick information binder that came with the cottage rental. He has sworn off the beach for the day, rather wisely after waking up with his back looking like it’s covered in Chinese fireball scales.

Ginny cranes her neck to look as he flips through pages of restaurants and local attractions.

“What’s an arcade, Hermione?” he asks.

Hermione glances over at the page. “Oh, a video arcade. It has games.”

“What kind of games?” he asks.

“You play them on things that are kind of like television sets,” Harry says. “Like Pac-Man.”

Ron looks like he has no more idea than Ginny what a Pac-Man is. “That sounds like fun. Can we go?”

“Sure,” Harry says.

Ginny glances at him. He’s been a little weird this morning, clearly a bit distracted but also strangely focused. Almost like his old Harry-on-a-mission look. She tries to catch his eye, but he isn’t looking in her direction.

“Do you want to come, Ginny?” Hermione asks.

Before Ginny can open her mouth, Molly speaks over her.

“I need your help this afternoon, Ginny.”

Ginny sighs, knowing the look of her mum when she can’t be derailed. “Maybe I’ll catch up?”

Hermione gives her a commiserating look.

And so Ginny gets roped into helping her mum with the dishes after lunch while Ron, Hermione, and Harry head off for downtown. She looks longingly after them, barely catching sight of the top of Ron’s head as they disappear down the sidewalk.

Molly frowns down at the sponge in her hand. Her mum has not adapted to household chores without magic at all gracefully.

“Honestly, how Muggles get anything at all done, I will never know.”

“Mum,” Ginny chastises, looking back over her shoulder to where Mrs. Granger is on the tellyphone with her husband. “She’ll hear you.”

Molly makes a dismissive sound. “Grab the last of the dishes, will you?”

Ginny crosses back over into the dining room. The downstairs bathroom door opens on her way past, a hand sneaking out to grab her and pull her in.

Ginny lets out a squeak of surprise, reaching for her wand. Before she can cast a hex, she realizes it’s Harry.

She barely catches a glimpse of his face before he’s swinging the door shut and kissing her. It’s no timid, cautious kiss, but hot and open-mouthed as he backs her against the wall, his hands settling firm and warm on her waist.

It’s like that look he gave her out on the beach yesterday made solid, only so much more, her entire body flaring with heat. She can’t remember him ever being quite this assertive before.

She really, really likes it.

She very nearly drops her wand as she grabs his shoulders, kissing him back as best she can.

His hands slip under her shirt. But rather than moving up, he pulls down just far enough for his thumbs to drag against her hipbones.

A low sound escapes her throat, her entire body feeling like it’s going to melt.

Far too soon for her taste, he pulls away.

“Harry,” she says, feeling breathless.

He doesn’t look much better himself, face flushed and breathing heavy.

He leans forward, his mouth near her ear. “Your move, Weasley.” Then he’s stepping back and disappearing out the door, leaving her weak and shaky and wondering what just happened.

It takes her a long time to collect herself enough to leave the bathroom. She almost forgets to collect the dishes in her distraction.

“Are you alright?” Molly asks, giving her a critical look.

“Fine,” Ginny mumbles, hoping the heat of the water in the sink can explain away any lingering flush in her cheeks.

Focusing on the dishes, she forces herself to consider the challenge Harry just administered. It’s a bad idea, this little competition that seems to be developing. Then again, she knew full well what she was doing with that bikini. She was playing with fire; it’s her own damn fault.

Biting her lip, she feels the lingering tingle of Harry’s kiss and can’t really bring herself to regret it.

* * *

One morning Mrs. Granger takes them out to an empty dirt lot and teaches them all to drive. Molly begs off, and Harry can only imagine how much Arthur would have loved it.

Ginny nearly leaves the clutch in a ditch behind them a few times, the car groaning in protest, but she just laughs with glee, bites down on her lip, and tries again.

“Oh Merlin,” Ron complains. “We are all going to die.”

Harry thinks there are far worse ways to go. Later when everyone is distracted, he whispers in her ear about the Muggle practice of parking.

“Maybe you should buy a car,” she says, her eyes sparkling.

It’s been two days since he set out his challenge without any sign of a response from her. He would assume that means she has no interest in playing if he didn’t know her as well as he does. He seriously doubts Ginny Weasley knows how to step back from a dare, no matter how much of a cautious person she pretends to be. She’s clearly just biding her time, like she knows the anticipation is only making him jumpier. The ways she smiles at him sometimes tells him she knows exactly what she’s doing.

He and Ron are out on the back deck when she finally strikes.

“I need more potion on my back,” she says, standing over Ron with a bottle in her hand, back in that pink bikini, but this time at least with a pair of ripped off jean shorts as well.

Small mercies. 

“Good for you,” Ron says, not even looking up at her, too interested in the huge sandwich he just tucked into after spending an indecently long time constructing it. 

Her timing would seem like a bizarre coincidence if Harry didn’t also know that Hermione and the mums just left a short while ago.

“I’m going to burn!” Ginny presses.

Ron just lifts his sandwich, muttering something unintelligible at her.

She sighs. “Fine, you prat,” she snaps. Turning to Harry like he’s somehow a last resort, she holds out the potion. “Do you mind?”

Of course he bloody well doesn’t mind, other than the fact that her brother is sitting right there and he is very well aware that this is finally her answer to his little stunt. (One that backfired spectacularly because now he can barely look at her without thinking about that kiss, the one that was supposed to leave her breathless and shaky but affected him just as badly.)

“Um,” he says, knowing he really needs to say no.

“For goodness’ sake,” she exclaims, dragging an ottoman over in front of him and dropping down onto it, clearly not giving him a choice. He’s impressed how disgruntled she manages to sound, despite the sparkle of mischief in her eyes as she turns to shove the potion bottle at him.

Her hair is piled up on top of her head, leaving her entire back bare except for the strap across her back and the bow at the base of her neck. It’s just…a lot of skin. A lot of Ginny’s skin.

He glances at Ron, and he just gives him an eye roll that seems to say, _Bloody little sisters, what can you do?_

 _Suck it up, Potter_ , he tells himself. _Just spread it on and don’t think about it. You can do this. It’s just a potion. You are not going to let her make you squirm._

Determinedly, he dumps some potion on his hands and tries to briskly and matter-of-factly spread it across her shoulders.

Of course, it turns out to be somehow even worse that he anticipates. Ugh, what right does her skin have to feel so good? He glares down at the fine scattering of freckles across her shoulders as he forces his hands to move down the plane of her back.

He focuses on his annoyance to get him through the task at hand.

It takes him far too long to realize that he’s listing forward, his face lowering towards those freckles he has sworn to hate for all time but still really, really wants to press his lips against. In punishment for the lapse, he forces himself to watch Ron working his way through his sandwich, anything to keep him from thinking about the feel of his hands sliding across the warm skin of her back.

It doesn’t help as much as he hopes. He still wants, more than anything, to wrap his arms around the front of her body and drag her back against him, to lean into her neck and kiss his way across her shoulder. His thumbs press slow circles into her skin.

Dropping his eyes out of fear that Ron will look up and see it in in his face, Harry notices that Ginny’s hand is curled into the cushion on the ottoman. Her breathing is a little unsteady too, and he isn’t sure if it’s better or worse that she is clearly just as affected by this as he is.

He carefully lifts the strap across her back, sliding his hand underneath, and she shudders, a fine sheen of goosebumps rising on her arms.

“All done,” he says, forcing his hands to drop away when he realizes he’s recovering areas he’s already done.

“Thanks,” she barely mumbles before scrambling to her feet and fleeing, not even bothering to take the bottle with her.

Harry warily looks up at Ron, amazed to see him still paying more attention to his crisps than to either of them.

He lets out a breath, sliding his hands down his legs, thinking it’s probably time for another freezing cold ocean swim again.

* * *

They avoid each other the rest of the day. Nothing obvious, really, just Ginny always having something else to do that is not wherever he is.

He’s thankful and annoyed all at the same time, mostly because he can’t stop replaying the entire event in his mind. Needless to say, by the time the house settles down for the night, Harry is not in the best of moods. Not helped by returning to his room after brushing his teeth to find Ron pulling on his trainers.

“Where are you going?” Harry asks.

“Took me nearly all day, but I finally convinced Hermione to…take a stroll with me.”

Harry bites back an irritated sigh. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate Ron keeping Harry well free of any details about what he and Hermione get up to. But the lie is so transparent as to be insulting.

“Right,” Harry says.

“Don’t stay up,” Ron says with a wink and then slinks out the door.

“Git,” Harry complains, falling back on his bed and covering his face with a pillow.

Less than five minutes after Ron disappears, there’s a knock on his door.

Harry glances at Ron’s clearly empty bed in alarm, wondering at the chances that Molly came to tuck them in or something.

Before he can come up with some sort of plan, the door pushes open just a crack, Ginny’s voice floating in as barely a whisper. “Harry?”

He sits up. “Yeah?”

Her face appears around the edge of the door. “Do you mind if I…?” She gestures her hand inside the room.

Quickly glancing down at his rumbled pajamas, he says, “Uh, no. Come in.”

Despite everything, he’s happy to see her. Not that it keeps him from watching her warily as she closes the door behind her. She can’t possibly be here for another round of revenge. Can she?

 _Keep it together, Potter,_ he tells himself.

Ginny lifts her hands as if in surrender, clearly picking up on his expression. “I think we need to call a truce.”

Harry lets out a breath, nodding eagerly. He’s relieved to hear that she thinks that little stunt she pulled with the sun potion went over a line too.

“I’m sorry about this afternoon,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “I clearly didn’t think that through.”

“You’ve been killing me,” he says, hearing the frustration and yearning in his voice, but finding himself incapable of embarrassment over it. 

She smiles, crossing over to sit down at the foot of the bed as he pulls his legs into his chest to make room for her. “For the record, you started it.”

“How exactly did I do that?”

“Swanning about in swim trunks. And seawater.”

He feels his lips twitch. “Hard to swim without doing that,” he says. “Besides, you’re hardly one to talk, that dratted bikini and all.”

Her expression is prim. “Proportional response.”

“There is absolutely nothing proportional about that bikini. Trust me.”

Her forced composure breaks, a soft laugh escaping her. She looks at him fondly. “Look, I know it’s your turn and you’re probably already planning something…”

“Honestly,” he says, “my brain hasn’t quite recovered enough yet to plan.” It’s still far too stuck in an endless replay loop of this afternoon. Besides, most of his so-called plans up to this point could be at best described as half-formed impulses.

She holds her hand out. “Truce?”

“Truce,” he agrees.

The moment he takes her hand, it all seems to spike between them again. It’s not like there is ever a moment he doesn’t want to kiss her, but it’s started feeling like if he doesn’t touch her, he’s going to crawl out of his skin.

He places the blame squarely on that ridiculous bikini, ignoring the fact that she is pretty much completely covered at the moment. Though not really, he notices, taking in the light, cottony tank top and pajama bottoms she’s wearing.

It unexpectedly makes him think of the early birthday visit she paid him right before he left for Australia. Ginny sitting so close, but completely out of reach.

Maybe it’s the thought of that painful night, or the months afterwards they spent apart, but before he knows what he’s doing, he’s tightening his grip on her hand and drawing her closer.

“Ugh,” she says as she climbs up the bed, her knees pressing up against his thigh as she settles next to him. “Clearly I didn’t think this through either.”

“I suppose I probably shouldn’t kiss you,” he says, shifting towards her and reaching for her waist.

She grips the front of his shirt. “Definitely not.”

Any response he may have come up with is lost as she pulls his mouth to hers. It’s no gentle, teasing kiss either, but more like the four days since they last kissed all layered into a single moment. Her hands slide into his hair as the kiss deepens, her lips parting under his.

In search of a better angle, for getting closer, Ginny ends up lying on her back, Harry stretching out next to her. The kisses linger, stretching longer and longer in the uninterrupted quiet of the room.

Her shirt, Harry discovers as he spreads his hand across her side, is made of an incredibly thin cotton, thin enough that he can tell that she definitely isn’t wearing anything under it, and this may just be worse than the dratted bikini. Only then Ginny’s hands find their way under the back of his shirt, and the feel of her hands on his skin makes his brain completely fizzle out.

He ducks his head, pressing kisses down her neck and over the smooth plane of her sternum, the smell of the potion still lingering faintly on her skin. It all seems to pile up on him in that moment, the bikini and the amazing kiss and his hands slick on her back and all the parts of her he wants to touch and kiss and never has.

Resisting any of his impulses is completely beyond him, being here with her in the dark of his room, lying with her in his bed. He puts his hand up under her shirt, sliding up higher and higher, finding her completely bare to his touch.

Ginny lets out a sound like a soft gasp, her fingers pressing into his back as he cups the gentle swell of her breast, making tentative circles with his thumb. She presses back up against him, her breathing heavy, and Harry feels pressure building in his chest, like he’s being filled up with too much air, like he just needs to _do_.

Ginny lets out a garbled sound that might be a word and then she’s tugging him closer, kissing him deeply, and his leg slides between hers as he angles down over her. She is soft and warm under him as he settles his weight, his elbow braced just on the other side of her chest, and god it feels amazing.

Amazing enough that he realizes with a jolt that she must be able to feel it the way he’s plastered against her, feel what she is doing to him, but when he tries to pull back away, she doesn’t let him, hands still warm and restless against the skin of his back, and he can’t find it in him to resist. Everything is just touch and the pressure of her leg, her mouth insistent against his as they press together in the dark, their movements restless and grasping.

There’s a sound like an angry cat somewhere in the distance, and Harry is more than happy to ignore it—to ignore anything and everything except Ginny—only for the sound to repeat. And then again. He frowns, still not prepared to stop kissing Ginny, when a loud voice finally breaks through the haze. 

“RONALD WEASLEY,” comes a furious shout from the stairs. “What do you think you are doing outside at this hour?”

Harry jerks back from Ginny, looking down at her in alarm as his heart thuds in his chest, his thoughts not for the apparent current troubles of his best mates who are getting yelled at by Molly, but figuring out how the hell he is going to get Ginny out of here without anyone noticing. He’s been too busy snogging her to even give the chance of getting caught a passing thought.

Ginny doesn’t look particularly concerned though, and he nearly gets derailed by the way her eyes seem almost black in the dimness of the room, her lips parted and glistening and just _right there_.

“I thought we could use some warning, just in case,” she murmurs.

It takes him a moment to even realize what she means, but before he can respond she is lifting up to kiss him, deep and searing.

She pulls back, Harry unable to stop the groan of protest at the loss of her. She smiles, her thumb dragging along his bottom lip, and he fights back the inexplicable urge to draw her thumb into his mouth, imagines running his teeth along it, tasting her skin with his tongue.

He thinks something in his expression must give him away because she lets out a shaky breath, her eyes widening. There’s the sound of thumping footsteps on the stairs—Hermione returning to the girls’ room no doubt.

“Pleasant dreams, Harry,” Ginny says, voice rough.

With barely a shift, she disappears with a pop, the sound covered by the continued furious voices of Ron and Molly. Harry falls face first into the covers with the loss of her body. He’d thought it a rather comfortable bed until he’s left lying there on his own with nothing but the rather insistent ache of his body. He squeezes his eyes shut, wanting Ginny back immediately. Wanting a lot really.

Ron slams into the room a few moments later, muttering under his breath about overprotective mums and a bloke not being able to properly say goodnight to his bloody girlfriend without a scene.

Harry tries to rouse some sympathy for his mate, he really does, but he’s too busy trying not to look like he’s thinking about Ron’s sister and dealing with a rather uncomfortable situation himself.

It seems to take forever for him to finally fall asleep.

* * *

“Good morning,” Ginny says as she walks into the kitchen.

She barely gets a round of grumbles in response.

The table is noticeably frosty, no one really looking at each other. Ginny thinks everyone is being rather ridiculous honestly. Not that she isn’t careful to sit on the other side of Ron at breakfast, her brother serving as a nice buffer between herself and Harry.

Maybe there’s more than enough ridiculous to go around.

Her mum is clearly still on a rampage, setting plates down with far more force than required, glaring at Ron and refusing to meet Hermione’s eye. On top of that, she is overly warm and friendly to Harry as if to highlight that at least _he_ is above reproach.

Of course, if Molly had any idea what Harry had been up to while Ron and Hermione were out on their stroll, she would probably feel quite differently.

She only manages to catch Harry’s eye once during the entire meal, and all she gets is a strained smile in return. Fair enough. She can’t imagine he’s enjoying her mum’s attention all that much.

Ron’s ears are getting redder and redder and Hermione looks like she’s close to either crying or dying of shame.

Mrs. Granger, Ginny notices, just makes stilted attempts at cheerful morning chatter, her hand under the table as if she’s squeezing Hermione’s hand.

“Mum,” Ginny says. “We should go to those little shops on the shore to pick out some things for the boys, don’t you think? You know how they’ll pout if we come back empty-handed.”

“I don’t know,” Molly says.

Ginny turns to Hermione’s mum. “Mrs. Granger, wouldn’t you like to come?”

Maybe Mrs. Granger can see through this attempt to remove Molly from Ron and Hermione’s sphere for a while, or maybe she just really loves shopping, Ginny doesn’t know, but either way she quickly agrees.

“Yes, there are a few things I would like to pick up myself. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, Molly.”

“Of course not,” Molly says, overly polite as if keen to show that the Weasleys are not so hopelessly uncouth as Ron’s behavior would lead anyone to believe.

Honestly.

“Great,” Ginny says, pushing to her feet. “Ron can take care of the clear up. Right, Ron?”

He is peevish enough this morning to look like he might refuse, but Ginny gives him a pointed look (and a quick kick to the ankle) and he ends up agreeing.

“Sure. Whatever.”

Somehow, Ginny manages to make it out of the house and down the lane with the two mums without another fight breaking out or Hermione bursting into tears.

They stroll through the little seaside shops filled with postcards and tiny knick knacks and lamps made of seashells. Ginny spends most of her time keeping Molly from saying anything too suspicious around all the Muggles.

“You know, Mum,” Ginny says as they peer down at a case full of earrings. “Ron and Hermione were in Australia for almost nine months. And the year before that on the run. They’ve been best mates for nearly a decade. They’ve saved each other’s lives and been through more than we will probably ever really understand. You can trust them. Especially just to take a nice moonlit stroll together.”

Molly huffs. “When you have children one day, then you’ll have the right to say that to me.”

“Mum,” she says, voice stern. She won’t be dismissed. “They’ve earned it.”

Molly turns to look at her, hands on her hips. “And what exactly is it that you think they have _earned_?”

Ginny thinks she has never before quite appreciated just how intimidating her mother can be when she’s in a temper. Especially when she is convinced she has the moral high ground.

“Mum,” Ginny says, voice deliberately dismissive. “You don’t need to worry. We have very good sex education at Hogwarts these days.”

Molly’s eyes nearly bug out, her mouth dropping open in pale-faced shock. “ _What?!”_

Ginny strolls off to where Mrs. Granger is flipping through a small turnstile of postcards, trying to remind herself that their very public location will lend her more protection than she would get in the beach house. But Molly needs to let her temper go, and better here with her than with Ron.

It’s not that Ginny feels guilty for getting Ron and Hermione in trouble so much as she knows she owes it to them to at least mitigate the impact. Even more than that, Mum honestly needs to grow up one of these days.

Ginny peers at a postcard of a crab waving with the words _Wish You Were Here!_ inscribed above. “Did you know that Muggle contraceptive methods are actually ineffectual with wizards?”

Molly gives Mrs. Granger a horrified look, as if she’s going to think poorly of how ungovernable the Weasley children are. “Ginevra Molly Weasley,” she hisses. “We are not talking about this.”

But Mrs. Granger only looks curious. “Are they really? Even barrier methods?”

Ginny frowns. “What’s a barrier method?”

Mrs. Granger looks very concerned. “You don’t know?”

Ginny shakes her head.

Mrs. Granger loops her arm through Ginny’s. “Well…” she says, going on to explain the intricacies of Muggle birth control.

Despite the blush Ginny can’t quite keep from her face, it’s a _very_ interesting half hour to say the least.

Molly pretends not to be paying them any mind, but Ginny isn’t fooled for a second.

When they get back, her mum disappears upstairs to lie down while Mrs. Granger makes some tellyphone calls. Ginny finds everyone out in the backyard. The boys are making another attempt at ping pong.

Ginny settles next to Hermione where she’s reading a book on a bench. “I had a chat with our mums today. They should give you two a little more room from now on.”

“Oh, Ginny. I wish you hadn’t,” Hermione says, looking mortified.

“I promise I didn’t make it worse.” She settles back on the bench, watching the boys struggle with the light little white ball.

Hermione only makes another pained sound of protest.

“Your mum is pretty great by the way,” Ginny says. “We had a really interesting conversation. I thought my mum would combust with embarrassment, but your mum was delightfully matter-of-fact.”

“She believes in the power of knowledge,” Hermione says.

Ginny nods. It explains a lot about how Hermione is.

Harry glances over at her, something furtive in his glance. The first time this happens, she chalks it up to lingering embarrassment, but when he does it again, she realizes he actually looks a little worried. She frowns. She thought things were going rather well. Especially after…

“Oh, bollocks,” she mutters.

“What?” Hermione asks.

“Nothing,” Ginny says, wanting to kick herself because of course Harry’s going to jump to the wrong conclusion in the face of her deliberate absence this morning.

Getting up, she crosses over to the table. “Can I play a round?” she asks Ron.

“Feel free,” he says. “This game is barmy.”

Ginny takes the paddle, giving it a few experimental swings.

Harry is still watching her warily.

They knock the ball back and forth between them a few times, the light little ball more often than not dribbling off the edge of the table or hitting the low net in the middle. Hefting her paddle to judge its weight, she hits the ball hard the next time it comes towards her. It bounces erratically, disappearing up over the fence behind Harry.

“Whoops,” she says.

Ron laughs gleefully. “Clearly got a great skill for that, Gin.”

She flips him off and crosses over to the gate, letting herself out into the front yard. The ball is lying in the dirt between two flowerpots.

Ginny leans over and picks up the small white ball, counting to fifteen in her head.

“I can’t find it,” she calls out.

“Accio ping pong ball would be real useful right around now,” Ron says, laughter in his voice, his mood, as ever, never kept down for long.

“I’ll help,” Harry predictably says, edging around the gate a moment later.

He immediately notices the ball in her hand, but only looks confused for a moment before what she can only call a look of resignation crosses over his features. She motions him closer, the two of them stepping under a tree that should keep them out of sight from the road.

“Hey,” she says, voice low.

“Hey,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets. He seems to be having a hard time meeting her eye.

Tackling things head-on has worked well so far today, so she decides to jump right into it. Besides, sometimes Harry is best served with a Bludger straight to the head. “About last night,” she says, and he only looks more wary, his shoulders tensing. “We promised to talk about what we’re comfortable with, what we like.”

He nods, looking down at his toes as if they are suddenly fascinating.

“Harry,” she says, waiting for him to look up at her. She takes a step closer, lowering her voice. “I liked every single thing we did last night. I am very much looking forward to doing them all again. Okay?”

He blows out a breath, clearly not expecting this from her. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

His hand reaches out to brush her hip. “I did too,” he says, only to slightly grimace, as if still embarrassed about how obvious his enjoyment had been.

“Good,” she says, feeling her cheeks heat up. “But this is exactly why I don’t trust myself around you right now.”

“Oh,” he says, as if it her sudden absence all finally makes sense.

His hand is still on her waist, and does he have to stand so close? Merlin, being away for a morning apparently has done nothing to dispel anything.

She swallows. “Let’s just keep to the truce, shall we? No more sun potion.”

He nods. “Or ambush kisses.”

“Or dratted bikinis.”

“Am I allowed to be sad _and_ relieved about that?” he asks, a smile playing at his lips, and yes, this is much better.

She laughs, very relieved to have Harry back to being more himself. “Found it!” she calls out, loud enough for Ron and Hermione to hear. Lingering out here is a bad idea. She turns to return to the backyard.

Harry catches her fingers, pulling her back to speak in her ear, his chest brushing against her back. “Would it break the truce to tell you that I did have pleasant dreams last night? And that they were all about you?”

Ginny feels heat streak through her body, amazed how quickly he can go from barely looking at her to _this_.

“Yes,” she says, hoping her voice is steadier than it feels. “It definitely would.”

“Then I’ll be sure not to,” he says, voice smug. 

“Prat,” she says.

He lets go of her, stepping around her so he can smile back over his shoulder as he heads back for the gate. “ _Now_ we’re even.”

She should be put out by that, but she only feels a swell of affection for him.

She is so completely doomed.

* * *

They easily hold to their truce for the last few days of the trip. Helped, no doubt, by the arrival of Mr. Granger and Mr. Weasley at the end of the work week. Ginny spends a lot of time with her father. Not that Harry minds, seeing how happy it makes her to be around him.

She’s dutifully started wearing a more covering suit, claiming to be tired of burning. He probably mourns that more than is appropriate.

As a group, they spend lazy mornings walking on the beach and playing games in the yard, hot afternoons on the beach. They even do another round of driving lessons, this time with Arthur grinning madly in the backseat. One night they build a giant bonfire down on the beach after the sun sets.

Ron’s mood has improved again, and Harry’s stomach nearly hurts with laughter as they sit together in the sand. Ron is rather animatedly reliving their supposed near-death experience today with Ginny and Hermione behind the wheel of the car.

Harry glances across the fire to look at Ginny, watching the flicker of light over her face as she leans into her father, the two of them deep in discussion about something.

She catches him watching, smiling at him, and Harry grins back.

Far too soon it is the last evening of their trip. Ron ropes Harry into helping him escape with Hermione for a few hours, apparently sufficiently recovered enough to risk his mum’s wrath again.

They all pretend to head out for a last trip to the boardwalk while the parents attempt playing bridge.

While Harry has already agreed to make himself scarce for a few hours, he doubts Ron has tried to get Ginny’s agreement yet judging from the way he keeps giving her flinty looks as if figuring out the best way to approach her.

They are halfway down the bluff before Ron even attempts to lay out the plan.

“You want me to _what_?” Ginny says.

“All I’m asking is that you don’t mention it to Mum. You can do whatever you like.”

“Except go back,” she says, folding her arms over her chest and looking genuinely cross. “Am I supposed to wander about the boardwalk by myself?”

“Harry will keep you company,” Ron declares, looking at him hopefully. “Right, Harry?”

“Er, sure,” he says, knowing he probably shouldn’t sound eager or anything.

“Fine,” Ginny snaps. “We’ll go that way.” She grabs Harry’s arm, pulling him around towards a different path. “And you _owe_ me.”

Harry lets her lead him away. “Didn’t realize what a chore it is to be alone with me,” he says once his best mates are out of sight.

She smiles at him, slowing her pace and winding her arm through his. “No reason I can’t get a future favor out of this as well.”

“Always looking for an angle, aren’t you,” he teases.

“Don’t forget it,” she says, giving him a wink.

They quickly abandon any plans involving the boardwalk, instead wandering down to the beach and finding a small cove against the cliffs where they can watch the sun set over the water.

Harry sits down against a rock, arms resting on his knees, but rather than sitting next to him, Ginny settles between his legs, leaning back against his chest and stretching her feet out. He wraps his arms around her waist, and yes, this is much better.

Pulling her wand, Ginny sets a charm that will keep the casual observer from even noticing them.

“So much for a Muggle vacation,” he teases.

She laughs, shifting a bit and relaxing back into his embrace. “What Mum doesn’t know can’t hurt her.” She glances back at him. “Is this comfortable for you?”

“It’s great,” he says. 

They watch the sun settle down into the ocean in silence, just the gentle swell of waves and their breathing. He’s not sure he’s ever felt more content than at this moment.

He trails a finger down her shoulder, the skin red and beginning to peel, just like she promised.

He pulls her hair to the side, lowering his face into the curve of her neck. She smells like salt and sun potion, and who knew how alluring that could be? Her head falls to the side in implicit permission, and he presses a gentle kiss to her skin.

She hums, her hand finding his knee and squeezing gently.

“Best vacation ever,” he murmurs.

She turns her head, meeting his gaze. “So far,” she corrects.

He considers her, fingers brushing her jaw as he thinks about the possibilities stretching ahead of them. Of other vacations and other places and more moments like this. Moments with her.

“So far,” he agrees, dipping his head to kiss her.

He can’t wait.


	2. Chapter 2

“And be quick about it!” Molly yells after Ron and Harry as they leave the kitchen.

“Bloody mental,” Ron mutters quietly under his breath as they dart up the stairs towards the first floor landing. They’ve been sent to collect the girls’ bags and get them out front to the cars. Just another small errand in an endless stream of small errands. Not that Harry minds, the pleasant parts of the vacation far outweighing the more practical aspects of packing and cleaning.

It’s been like this since very early, running back and forth, and Molly shouting. It feels a lot like September 1st in the Burrow.

Rounding the corner to the second flight of stairs, Ron comes to a sudden catastrophic stop, a bright flash of light blooming across the doorway. He lets out a hoarse shout as he bounces back into Harry, very nearly knocking both of them down.

Harry manages to grab the handrail and keep both of them on their feet, Ron letting out a string of curses that would only set Molly off again if she’d been within range of hearing it.

“Alright?” Harry asks, eyeing his mate.

“Yeah,” he says, his face a deep red. He braces his arm on the wall, bellowing down the stairs. “Mum! How are we supposed to get their bags when the bloody ridiculous _ward_ is still up?”

“RONALD!” Molly yells back. “You will watch your tongue. Come down here at once!”

Ron sighs, muttering under his breath about Merlin’s nether regions.

Harry winces, starting to follow after him.

Ron stops him. “You can stay out of range. No need for a witness to this,” he says, patting him on the shoulder. Though Harry suspects Ron just knows how uncomfortable he gets when the Weasleys row with each other.

“Good luck,” Harry says as Ron stomps down.

Turning back to the blocked stairwell, he regards the simple ward. Cautiously, he reaches out his hand, stopping when he can feel the soft press of it against his palm. Pulling his wand, he tries a simple _finite incantum_ , not surprised when it doesn’t work.

Wards, he knows, have to be stripped and dismantled, not just turned off. Only the caster can do that. But with the right combination of spells and a rune or two… Ignoring the rumble of angry voices from downstairs, he focuses on the task. Fortunately it isn’t a particularly strong ward—more meant to dissuade anyone from trying to pass than actually keeping someone out, he assumes.

On his third try, he manages to bring it down.

Grinning to himself triumphantly, he lopes up the steps, feeling buoyed by his success. Right as he nears the attic door at the top of the stairs, it opens, Ginny emerging with her bag.

He tries to backpedal to avoid crashing into her, only for his foot to slip on the top stair. He can feel his body start to tumble back, already bracing himself for the fall.

“Harry!” Ginny says, her bag hitting the ground with a thump as she makes a grab for his arm. Her fingers close around his forearm, and then she’s tugging with surprising strength.

Harry pitches forward, Ginny’s back thumping against the wall as he careens into her.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a rush.

“Are _you_?” she asks, eyes wide. “You’re the one who almost fell down the stairs.”

“Second time this morning too,” he admits with an embarrassed grin.

Her eyebrows lift, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Distracted, Potter?”

His arm has somehow found its way around her waist—just to hold her steady, he tells himself—and he spreads his hand across the small of her back. “Continually,” he admits, his thumb tracing a small circle against her spine.

Ginny bites her lip, fingers pressing into his arm, and that just makes him want to kiss her.

A rather loud shout reverberates its way up through the house.

Ginny sighs, rolling her eyes. “Mum’s really outdoing herself this morning.”

Harry nods in agreement, reluctantly loosening his grip as she steps back away from him. “Is Hermione still up here?”

Ginny shakes her head. “No. She went down to the bath—”

She doesn’t get to finish, Harry ducking down and kissing her. Ginny doesn’t protest, her fingers curling into the front of his shirt to drag him closer as he focuses on kissing her as thoroughly as he can.

When he pulls back her face is pink, like she’s flustered and pleased all at once, and Harry thinks making her look like that may be his favorite thing ever.

He still forces himself to let go of her before he can forget the house is full of people running about.

“What was that for?” she asks.

“Saving my life, of course,” he says, stooping down to grab her bag. 

She laughs. “I _can_ carry that, you know.”

He shakes his head. “Your mum’s orders. I may be brave, but I’m not that brave, going against her.”

Ginny huffs. “Smart.” She follows him down the stairs. “How did you get up here anyway? What happened to the ward?”

He shrugs, glancing back up at her. “Wasn’t all that hard to take down.”

She looks suitably impressed, and Harry takes more pride in that than he probably should.

Downstairs, Molly somehow senses that Ginny is in the vicinity, calling out for her the moment she steps into the entryway.

Ginny shoots Harry a long-suffering look and then follows the sound of her mum’s voice into the kitchen.

Mr. Granger meets Harry at the door, holding his hand out. “I can take that,” he says.

“Sure,” Harry says. “Thanks.” He passes Ginny’s bag off and returns his attention to the kitchen, his mind wandering back to their time on the stairs. Through the doorway, he catches a glimpse of her scrubbing a kitchen counter, impatiently blowing a strand of hair out of her face. He wonders at the chances that they might be able to find another moment alone together before they all have to get in the cars. For now, he’ll be content with standing near her as he scrubs something.

“Harry?”

He startles, spinning about to find Arthur regarding him from the dining room.

“Might I have a word?” he asks, casually cleaning his glasses on the edge of his shirt.

Harry can’t help the small flare of panic in his chest. He had just been rather blatantly staring at Ginny. And kissing her on the stairs. There is no way this is about her, he reminds himself. Or about the very pleasant few hours they spent together out on the beach the evening before.

Right?

“Uh, sure. Of course,” Harry says, trying not to wince at how guilty he sounds. He follows Arthur into the dining room.

Arthur sits at the table, gesturing at a chair next to him.

“Is everything alright?” Harry asks as he lowers himself into it.

Arthur smiles. “Yes, of course.” He pushes a rather thick file folder towards him. “Kingsley asked me to deliver these to you. I thought I might as well wait until our trip was over before bothering you with it.”

Harry frowns at the folder. It has the official seal of the Ministry of Magic on the front. Nothing good has ever come with the official seal of the Ministry of Magic in Harry’s experience.

“Am I in some sort of trouble?”

“No, not at all. Go on, open it. I’m happy to answer any questions you may have.”

He reluctantly does as he’s told. Inside, there is a stack of papers. The top one seems to be an information sheet about the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. Harry frowns, flipping open the note that is attached to it.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We would be honored to have you come join us in the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. A job here can offer you many exciting experiences, and we are sure that with your skills you will be a great asset to us. There is never a dull moment! Please consider coming and paying us a visit and seeing if our department is right for you!_

Harry frowns, looking at the next paper in the stack, this one about Magical Games and Sports with a nearly illegible note from Ludo Bagman where he calls Harry _my chum_ at least four times. Like they are good friends.

Harry is still warm and relaxed from the vacation, but it all seems to dry up as he looks at what he realizes is letter after letter. “I don’t understand.”

“They’re job offers,” Arthur says.

Yes, clearly. “But I don’t have my NEWT results yet.” They won’t arrive for at least another few weeks.

Arthur looks uncomfortable, shifting in his chair. “It’s not like you didn’t sit them. I’m sure you did well.”

Harry looks down at the stack of papers again, spreading them out across the table. Magical Law Enforcement, both Wizengamot and Auror divisions. Regulation and Care of Magical Creatures. International Magic Cooperation. Magical Catastrophes and Accidents. Magical Games and Sports.

“This looks like every department.”

“It is,” Arthur confirms.

He may have sat his NEWTs, but even _if_ he passes all of them, which is far from a given, he doesn’t have the minimum qualifications for even a fraction of the departments represented. Each with a written note of various lengths, full of flattery and promises and each more upsetting than the last.

“The truth is, Harry, a few of the departments were getting a bit…territorial over who might get you.”

Harry feels his shoulders hunch. “I’ve had quite enough of the Ministry trying to ‘get me’ if it’s all the same to you.”

Arthur doesn’t look offended, nodding his head in agreement. “Kingsley was adamant that you deserved to have all of your options presented to you.”

“And it was a way to make them stop fighting,” Harry surmises. 

Arthur doesn’t deny it.

There is even an offer letter from the Muggle Relations Office, Arthur’s signature on the bottom. For some reason it feels like the biggest betrayal of all.

“I never even took Muggle Studies,” Harry mutters, face warm with an unsettling mix of shame and anger. 

“Harry,” Arthur says, reaching out to touch his arm only to pull back at the last moment. “I have no doubt you would make a valuable addition to my department. I would very much enjoy working with you. And I stand by my offer, whether the Minister requested it or not. But you need to think about what _you_ want. This is your future. And I know very well that my department is not what you are looking for.”

The problem is, Harry isn’t all that sure what he’s looking for these days. He just knows he has to choose _something_. Doesn’t he?

He picks up the one from the Auror Department. This one doesn’t have an additional letter, but there is a scrawled note on the front of it in ink.

_My offer still stands._

_–Robards_

There is a horrid churning in Harry’s stomach, and in that moment, he finds it really hard not to resent the entire bloody Ministry.

“Kingsley would like you to send him a note directly letting him know which one you would like. He’ll inform the departments himself when the time is right.” Arthur does touch him this time, patting him gently on the shoulder. “Take your time, Harry. There’s no rush.”

With that, Arthur gets up and leaves, maybe to go mediate the argument that seems to be going on somewhere that Harry’s been too wrapped up to even notice.

Harry looks at all the papers spread out around him, his eyes lingering on Robards’s offer. Suddenly all he wants is the decision made and behind him.

Pulling Ludo’s note towards him, he wipes the words clear with his wand. He fishes a biro out of a nearby drawer and after only a short hesitation, writes a note to Kingsley, scrawling his signature across the bottom. Folding it in half, he seals it shut with a tap of his wand.

He sits back, feeling a little winded.

Roughly gathering up the rest of the papers, he shoves them back in the file, ducking outside. Fortunately there is no one out there, and he’s able to shove the papers into his bag, slamming the boot shut.

“Harry?” Arthur asks, appearing with the last of the bags.

“Here,” he says, shoving the sealed note at him.

“Harry,” he starts to say.

“Take it,” Harry insists, for some reason having a hard time meeting the older man’s eyes. “I don’t need any more time.”

“Alright,” he says, taking it. “If you ever wish to talk…”

“Yeah,” Harry says, still not looking at him. “Thanks.” He turns and strides back into the house, letting Molly give him a mindless chore to do. It passes the time until they’re finally ready to leave.

Ginny ends up in the car with the dads. It’s probably for the best, Harry not trusting himself to be wedged into the backseat with her for three hours, but that doesn’t stop the feeling of disappointment. He’s far less disappointed that he doesn’t have to drive with Arthur.

“Everything alright, Harry?” Hermione asks as he gets in the backseat across from her.

“Yeah, of course,” he says.

He looks out the window.

* * *

Ginny steps into the cool darkness of the Leaky Cauldron with a sigh of relief, pausing a moment to let her eyes adjust. It’s surprisingly warm out, or maybe she’s just missing the cool ocean breezes. The city certainly seems more crowded to her now.

Just another sign maybe, that she is definitely meant to live by the water.

Glancing around, she tries to see if Hannah arrived first, if she’s maybe sitting in one of the booths.

“Ginny.”

She turns, and Hannah steps out from behind the bar, untying an apron from around her waist.

Ginny frowns, even as Hannah folds her into a tight hug. “It’s so nice to see you,” she says, but Ginny is not fooled by her casual cheer for a moment.

“You’re _working_ here?” Ginny asks. Well, possibly demands, more like.

Hannah glances around, clearly uncomfortable. “Uh, why don’t we go up?”

Ginny considers refusing, having no idea where ‘up’ is exactly, but Hannah looks pleadingly at her, and she’s never been able to resist that particular expression. She nods. “Yeah, fine.”

She follows Hannah through a door off the pub and up a rickety staircase. It’s not the same part of the pub where the rooms for let are, but rather up above the kitchens. 

Hannah lets her into a small one-room flat. There’s a neatly made bed with a cheerful yellow quilt, a small table with two chairs, and not much else besides a very small balcony outside the windows loaded down with pots overflowing with all types of plants.

When she’s done looking around, Ginny finds Hannah watching her, her hands twisted in front of her and lip pulled between her teeth. “I already brought some lunch up,” she says, gesturing at the table and sitting down.

“Hannah,” Ginny says, sitting down across from her, attention not on the plates. “What is going on?” She never mentioned _any_ of this, not at Hogwarts, not in her letters since. 

“It’s a good job. Too good to pass up when Tom offered,” Hannah says. “I get this room, and it’s nice talking to people all day. I rather like living on my own.”

“I thought you wanted to study herbology?” It’s been her dream. Working with plants, discovering new species. Completing research to figure out new potions to help people. There’s an advanced program in Wales she was endlessly excited about.

Hannah looks down at her hands. “I’m being practical, Ginny. We both know I don’t have the scores.”

“We haven’t even gotten our results yet!”

“It made a difference, getting more time, getting to do it all on my own. But I’m still pretty sure I didn’t do well. Not well enough.”

Ginny considers her friend, the slump of her shoulders. “You can’t know that. And even if it’s true, maybe we could talk to McGonagall. Or Sprout! See about sitting the exams again.”

“Ginny,” Hannah says, chin lifting and voice very nearly sharp. “This is what I want.”

Ginny sits back in her chair, completely at a loss. Why is she just...giving up like this? “Then why do you look so miserable?”

“Please don’t be disappointed in me,” she says, looking like she might cry.

“Hannah, no,” Ginny says, realizing with a horrible lurch that _she_ is what’s making Hannah miserable. She reaches across the table, covering Hannah’s hands with her own. “If this is what you want, then _of course_ I’m happy for you. I mean, I get free drinks, right?”

Hannah laughs, the sound a bit thick. “Always.”

“Well then,” Ginny says, squeezing her fingers. “What’s not to love?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, finger swiping at her eyes. “I’m being silly.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for. I should have been more…understanding.”

Hannah gestures at their plates. “Will you try it? I made it myself.”

“Of course,” Ginny says, tucking in.

It’s simple fare, but hearty and very good, Ginny careful to tell her so.

“So,” Ginny says, eyeing Hannah. “How did your dad take it?”

Hannah winces. “Well, of course he’d rather have me at home. I just…it’s hard to be there.” 

Too many memories of her mother, Ginny imagines. A lot of things are harder now that the immediate threats are gone. Even the simple distractions of having a clear path in front of them like taking exams are finally gone. Finish your seven years at Hogwarts, take your exams, graduate. All the rules written by someone else. But not any longer. Now it’s just nothing but choices and possibilities ahead of them.

It’s daunting, to say the least. Ginny thinks if she didn’t so clearly know what she wanted to do, she might go crazy with it. Or maybe that’s why she’s grabbed her path with both hands and refuses to deviate.

“There’s a greenhouse,” Hannah says. “Where they grow some of the produce for the kitchens. It’s a bit rudimentary, but I think with some tweaks it could be a really great space. Tom says he doesn’t mind if I do some work in there.”

Ginny smiles. “That’s good. A nice wage, access to a greenhouse, and a room of your own.”

Hannah nods. “It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” Ginny says. She just wonders if it’s enough.

For the rest of the meal, they stick to much safer topics like the other people Hannah’s seen so far this summer and the spiraling disaster that is Neville and Luna’s…arrangement, which they are both simultaneously wildly curious about and really reluctant to know anything at all.

A couple hours later, Ginny glances at the clock. “I have to run. I told my mum I’d be back by two.”

Hannah nods, getting to her feet. “Ah, the joys of living at home.”

Hannah is clearly teasing her by lording her new-found independence over her, and Ginny is just relieved to have her back in spirits.

They hug, Ginny holding her tight. “I’m happy for you.” 

“Take care,” Hannah says.

Ginny smiles. “I’ll come back and visit you soon.”

Back downstairs, she passes through the pub and out into Muggle London. Taking a breath, she looks up and down the street, determinedly striding off to her left. A few blocks up she sits on a bench, waiting for an autobus to arrive with the correct number. She pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket, double checking that she remembers the number right, and counting and recounting the small collection of strange-shaped coins.

When it arrives, she gets on, fumbling the foreign coins, but managing not to accidentally slip a stray knut into the mix, so she’ll count it as a victory.

Harry is waiting for her when she gets off at her stop.

“You made it,” he says, smiling at her. 

She’s a bit proud of herself, to be honest. Navigating Muggle London still always feels like she’s one slip of the tongue away from making a spectacle of herself. But she is determined to lean how to do it all the same.

“I’m amazing,” she declares with a laugh, throwing her arms around Harry and hugging him tight. He hugs her back without hesitation, lifting her slightly up off her feet in his enthusiasm.

Ginny clings to him, loving that he’s comfortable enough to be like this, for once not having to be circumspect, but even more how far they’ve come. Almost four months now since Easter Break and their first date. It’s hard to believe.

“What?” he asks, and she realizes she’s smiling up at him like an idiot.

She shakes her head, lifting up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Just happy to see you.”

“I suppose that is allowed,” he says, fingers grabbing hers as they start down the park path.

She fills him in on her visit with Hannah, and her new job as they wander aimlessly hand in hand.

“But she seems happy?” he asks.

“It’s Hannah,” Ginny says. “Putting on a happy face is like her superpower.”

“Tom is nice enough,” Harry says noncommittally.

She nods. “I guess…it’s just hard to see her give up on her dreams.”

Harry looks away, rubbing at his nose. “Sometimes dreams change.”

“I suppose,” Ginny says.

They fall into silence, Ginny lost enough in her own thoughts that it takes her a while to notice that Harry’s mood seems to have shifted.

“Harry?” she asks, tugging on his hand when he’s been quiet for too long.

“It’s way too hot for walking,” he says. “What do you say we get ice cream instead?”

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees. “Sounds good.”

They end up at the place near Harry’s, the same one where they had their first official date. It’s much more crowded now as many people seem to be trying to escape the heat. She supposes the press of people and the harried curtness of the server could explain Harry’s clear annoyance.

She watches him as she works her way through her ice cream. She decides something is clearly going on with him. He’d been so happy and carefree while they were on holiday, but now it’s like something has settled back down on him, and she isn’t sure how much of that is just being back in London, or something more.

He was a little odd the last day of their trip, but she shrugged it off at the time as them all being tired. The moment they were back it felt like they had a million things pulling them in all directions. Harry immediately went to spend some time with Teddy, while Ginny had her friends to check in with. Lunch with Antonia, a stiff awkward dinner at Tobias’s house. Mediating a rather interesting meeting between Luna and George at the shop.

She tries to keep the conversation light, mocking his ice cream choices, and he rolls his eyes but gamely plays along, his knee brushing up against hers, and that’s nice at least.

“Do you have time to come back to Grimmauld for a bit?” he asks, hand brushing hers under the table even as he gives her a look like he’s embarrassed to let on that he wants to get her on her own.

She catches his fingers, squeezing firmly. “Definitely.”

As they walk back, his silence just seems to deepen, his brow furrowed as if he’s a million miles away.

“Tough decisions?” she teases, poking him in the side. “Like which marriage proposal to accept?”

“What?” he says, looking over at her in confusion.

She just lifts her eyebrows a couple times.

He seems to finally realize she’s still having a go at him over his fan mail. “Gin,” he chastises, his hand covering hers.

She smiles, but other than squeezing her hand in response, he returns to his heavy silence, the half-hearted smile slipping from his face.

It’s almost enough for a witch to take it personal. She doesn’t push, though, and soon enough they are letting themselves into Grimmauld Place.

“Okay,” she says, dropping her bag onto a chair in the sitting room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“What?” he asks, sitting down on the couch. “Nothing.”

If he thinks she’s going to be drawn into a snog and distracted, he has another think coming. “You’ve been continents away all afternoon.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, giving her a sheepish grin. “You didn’t come here to be ignored.”

“I’m not feeling ignored, Harry, that isn’t the problem.”

They regard each other, and she can tell he wants to blow her off, to deny it, but he eventually leans back against the couch with a sigh, his head dropping onto the cushions behind.

Just when Ginny begins to think he won’t speak, he says, “Your father gave me a set of files from the Ministry, right before we left the beach house.”

“Did he?” she asks, this being the last thing she expects to hear.

He nods, peering up at her between his fingers. “They offered me an apprenticeship in any department of my choice.”

She lifts an eyebrow, kneeling on the sofa next to him. “Don’t you have to wait for your NEWT results?” They shouldn’t arrive for another few weeks yet.

His lips press together.

“Oh, yes,” she says. “I forgot. You’re Harry Potter.”

He huffs, dragging a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “I’m glad someone can forget.”

“I guess I’m not so easily impressed.”

His head rolls to the side to look at her, his fingers brushing her knee. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“Be sure that you do,” she says, giving him an arch look.

He smiles, his thumb rubbing a small, careless circle that sends tingles up her leg. “I’ll do my best.”

Shifting, she turns towards him, propping her elbow on the couch behind his shoulder, her other hand coming to rest on his chest. “So all this staring off into space is you trying to decide which position to take?”

He shakes his head, covering her hand with his. “I already decided. Sent the letter back and everything.”

“Yeah?” she asks, not at all surprised that Harry didn’t take time to consider his options. It’s not like he’s made a secret of his career plans.

He takes a breath as if bracing himself, his hand tightening around hers. “Department of Mysteries.”

Everything seems to stop for a moment, but all Ginny can think is that she should be more surprised by that than she is. “Department of Mysteries,” she repeats, just to make sure she’s heard correctly.

“Yes,” he says, something a little defiant in his eyes.

Personally, she is torn between the terror of horrible memories of a dark night fighting for their lives, and the burn of curiosity to know the secrets of everything down there. But what’s important is to think of it from Harry’s point of view. She’s already made that mistake once today. 

It’s possible there’s some sort of closure to be found there for him, some sort of answer about everything with Voldemort and the horcruxes that has been eluding him. Or possibly it just seems like a nice place to hide for a while until things die down and his name isn’t in every other article in the paper. She doesn’t know. But maybe she doesn’t need to.

_Sometimes dreams change._

“Okay,” she says.

He looks at her, clearly surprised. “You don’t think it’s a bad idea?”

“Who am I to say that?”

He studies her face, like maybe he’s trying to judge her sincerity. “Most people aren’t going to be so understanding. They’re going to want me to explain why.” The research-oriented Department of Mysteries is a long way away from the rough and tumble world of Aurors after all.

“And you aren’t quite sure how to do it yet,” she surmises. She touches his hair, fingers tugging slightly as she uselessly tries to smooth it into place. “Because maybe you aren’t even sure yourself?”

He frowns. “Maybe. I guess partially I was hoping with the level of secrecy down there…”

She nods. He might not have to deal with the same amount of scrutiny as anywhere else. But she doubts that alone is reason enough. Knowing him, he’s perfectly fine not having logical reasons for the choice. He’s stayed alive this long listening to his gut. The question is why his instincts are driving him that way.

She supposes only time will tell.

“I got a letter myself last week,” Ginny says, supposing it’s time for a little confession of her own, to finally speak of the thing she’s been holding close to her chest for so long.

“Yeah?” Harry asks.

She nods. “From Gwenog Jones.”

“She offered you a position,” he surmises, sounding all proud, like he’s gratified someone appreciates her.

“Yes,” Ginny says. “And most people assume I will take it.”

Harry frowns. “You won’t?”

She shakes her head.

His eyebrows pop up, his posture alert now as he sits up. “What? Why not?”

“If I was a Beater, it would be a no-brainer. Gwenog’s one of the best.”

“But you still want to play Quidditch,” he says.

She nods. “More than anything. I just have my eye on a different club. Something I would earn, not because I’m a girl or was in the Slug Club, but because of what I can do.”

Goodness knows the spot with the Harpies is probably the quickest and easiest path to playing time, a starting position. A team where she won’t have to prove herself over and over again as the girl. But easy and obvious don’t appeal to her. She can’t remember anymore if there was ever a time it did.

She looks at Harry. “It might be a mistake. I don’t know. But it will be my mistake.”

Harry seems to consider that, his fingers playing with hers.

“Of course,” Ginny continues, shifting up in one smooth movement to straddle Harry’s lap. “There’s always the inherent value of doing the unexpected.” She settles her weight on his thighs. “It keeps people on their toes.”

Harry stares back at her, swallowing convulsively at her sudden proximity. “Unexpected can be good,” he agrees, his hands settling on her waist.

She pulls his glasses off, stretching over to put them carefully on the end table. “I thought you might like it.”

But rather than kissing him, she lifts her wrist up between them. “See this?”

“Maybe if you hadn’t just stolen my glasses.”

She rolls her eyes, knowing he can see perfectly well at this distance. “I’ll just hold it real close.”

His fingers trace along the dark lines inked on her skin. He’s seen the tattoo many times at this point, but they’ve never really directly discussed it. “Is your Patronus a spider?” he asks, and she can tell he’s been wondering for a while.

She gives him an arch look. “That would be a little obvious.”

“Trying to freak Ron out then?”

She smirks. “Just a side bonus, I swear.”

He laughs. “So why a spider?”

“The spider is the spinner of fate, of destiny,” she explains. “It’s a reminder.”

The smile slips off his face, replaced with a sort of wariness. Fate and destiny have never been particularly kind to Harry Potter. “Of what?” he asks.

She holds his gaze. “That _I_ spin my fate. That my life is only ever what I choose to make of it.”

That seems to lodge deep with Harry, his entire body stilling. “It is our choices that define us,” he says, voice canted just so as to make Ginny wonder if it was something someone once said to him.

She touches his face, fingers trailing down his cheek. “And we define our choices.”

He catches her hand, holding her palm firm against his face. “How is it that you always know the right thing to say?”

She feels her stomach flood with warmth the way it always does when he looks at her like that. Leaning in closer, free hand pressing against his chest, she whispers, “Magic.”

He smiles, looking back down at her wrist. He surprises her by pressing his lips to the tattoo. It’s tender and gentle, and she lets out a soft breath at the tingle in her spine. Harry seems to take it as encouragement, because then his mouth opens, tongue warm against her pulse, rocketing the feelings far past pleasant.

“Harry,” she says, shifting towards him. Harry’s free hand grabs her knee, his other sliding into her hair to pull her mouth down to his.

God, _finally_. She feels like she’s been waiting for this for _years_ , not just the short week since the beach, the few weeks since Hogwarts. Harry apparently feels the same way, and this kiss reminds her a lot of that one he ambushed her with, like something has fundamentally shifted between them.

That thrills her in ways she isn’t quite prepared to feel.

Soon enough Harry’s fingers are fumbling with the buttons on her shirt. Despite his eagerness, he still pops them open one at a time with enough concentration to make her feel a bit like a birthday present.

His fingers trace down edge of her gaping shirt, and Ginny sighs, leaning into his touch. “I’ve missed you,” she says.

“Me too,” he says, fingers dipping down lower and making Ginny’s breath catch.

She grabs for the hem of his shirt, refusing to wait any longer to have his skin under her fingers, wanting what was denied to her on all those long sunny days on the beach. Reaching for the back of his collar, he helps her by pulling it up over his head. Her hands automatically go to his chest, pushing him back against the cushions. She spends a few moments just looking at him, the contours of his body, the way her hand is pale against his skin.

She smiles, her fingers playing with the light thatch of dark hair on his chest, tugging gently.

Harry laughs under his breath, grinning back at her as she lets her hand trail down, skimming over his stomach.

He sucks in a breath, the muscles tightening under her touch. “Ginny,” he says. 

She leans forward, but instead of kissing his mouth, she presses her lips to the hollow of his shoulder and then across his collarbone. His breath seems to catch as she continues to explore, and he slides his hands up her back, pushing her shirt off her shoulders and down her arms.

“Hmm,” he says, sounding a bit disappointed.

“What?” she asks, looking down at her admittedly simple bra.

His expression is mischievous. “Just hoping to get a closer look at that bikini.”

She grins at him. “Liked that, did you?”

He winces a bit. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulls herself closer, her hips meeting his. He lets out a breath, his hands grabbing her waist. “It’s a bit more obvious now.”

She half expects disassembling, a rush of heat to his face, but what she gets is even better.

“Well,” Harry says, holding her gaze. “No one ever accused me of being subtle.”

Ginny feels a huge smile spread across her face. “No,” she says. “I don’t suppose they would.”

After all, it’s all right there in his face, even without what his body is telling her. He’s looking at her with such open affection and something much more intense that she has zero doubt how much he wants to be here with her right now. It’s exhilarating and slightly terrifying, like she’s flubbed a dive, her stomach dropping away in the free fall.

Reaching for his face, she leans into him, kissing him deeply, not wanting there to be any doubt of her own feelings. Her tongue sweeps into his mouth, his hands pressing against her back in response, pulling her closer.

The deep intensity of feeling that first sparked between them at the beach house is still there—in the way he kisses her almost relentlessly, the way his hands move over her body. It still doesn’t feel like enough.

Twisting her arm around behind her, she flicks open the clasp of her bra.

Harry stills, mouth pulling from hers as he regards her, looking ruffled and thoroughly kissed. His hands slowly splay across the now-bare skin of her back as if in question, and she can’t help but remember the torturous feeling of his hands slick against her back as he applied sun potion.

Still watching her, he slides his hands up to her shoulders, hooking his fingers under the straps before slowly lowering them down her arms.

It’s his turn to study her, his expression almost reverent as his eyes sweep her body.

“Better than the bikini?” she asks, trying for bravado but stumbling a bit short as her voice betrays her.

His eyes find hers again, even as his fingers tentatively reach out, the barest sensation as they softly trail down over her. “You’re beautiful,” he says.

She bites her lip, leaning into his touch. She has no illusion about her assets (or lack thereof), but when he says it like that, she believes he really means it.

She kisses him, his touch growing more sure as she presses into him, as she doesn’t bother hiding her reactions, her own hands restless and exploring, trying to find the places that make his breathing hitch and his hands tighten in response.

She lets her head fall back as Harry kisses his way down her throat and then even lower, hesitating only slightly before his mouth is replacing his hands. She gasps at the sensation, winding her fingers in his hair, biting down on her lip as she holds him close, not wanting him to stop. He doesn’t, instead dedicating himself to the endeavor with a dizzying single-minded focus. She can’t help but let out a noise that she thinks should be embarrassing, but Harry’s fingers just tighten on her waist, pulling her more firmly against him. Without thinking, she rolls her hips, trying to get closer, rocking against him.

Harry tenses, making an inarticulate sound against her skin, the rush of air over her skin making her shiver.

“I’m sorry, was that—” she starts to say.

“Do that again,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” he says, sounding slightly strangled. “If you wa—”

She does, and god, it feels really, really good. Harry thinks so too, to judge from the sound he makes, the way he drags her mouth back down to his. Kissing, the bare skin of her chest against his is like a shock through her entire body, a rush of heat, and she can’t stop moving against him, doesn’t _want_ to stop moving.

The friction is just right, in the exact right place, and it must be working for him as well, because his fingers are digging in on her hip, encouraging her as he presses up against her in response, his mouth hot and open on her throat and chest.

Merlin, it’s getting really hard to think, the sensations piling and building, so many things all at once, and all of this is happening really fast. It’s not like she’s never felt this before, hasn’t figured out perfectly well how her body works. She knows what is happening. She’s just never done it _with_ someone.

“Harry,” she says, voice unsteady. “I—”

She breaks off, unable to say anything else, not even sure what she wants to say, because, Merlin, she just can’t _think_ —there is only sensation after sensation.

Harry’s hand slides up her back, his forearm firm along the length of her spine, as if holding her steady. _I’ve got you_ , the gesture seems to say, and it occurs to her how unbelievably _safe_ she feels.

He pauses, head dropping to her shoulder, hands not pulling back, but his body holding motionless. “Should we…stop?” he asks, his own voice not completely steady. Everything just halts for a moment as he lets her decide, and no, stopping is not at all what she wants. 

She shakes her head and kisses him hard, rolling her hips, and god that has no right to feel that good.

Harry kisses her back, deep and unrelenting as his hands find her hips again. Someone is making rather throaty sounds of approval, and she suspects that might be her, but can’t bring herself to care.

It all builds and builds and it’s too much. Way, way too much as everything seems to give way. She shudders against him, gasping into his mouth. Turning her face away from his, she digs her fingers into his arms as pleasure echoes through her body.

She can’t catch her breath, but honestly breathing seems so unnecessary in the moment. Eventually she relaxes, all the muscles in her body seeming to give out all at once. 

Harry’s face turns into her cheek, nudging gently. “Alright there?” he asks. His hands are still sliding up and down her back, little trails of sensation across her body in response.

“Merlin, yes,” she says, voice still embarrassingly breathy. “But I thought that was probably obvious.”

His body shakes as he silently laughs at her horrible joke. He presses a kiss to her temple and then her cheek, his hand smoothing down over her hair.

She forces herself to look at him, knowing she can’t exactly hide from him forever, and of course he doesn’t look at her funny or tease her, just regards her with almost painful affection.

She touches his face, leaning in to kiss him, and somehow nothing has lessened or become less enthralling. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of kissing him. Still, as Harry rather enthusiastically kisses her back, she shifts her body slightly to the side to relieve the now uncomfortable pressure. He follows her with a soft sound of protest as if he can’t stand to have her move away.

He seems to consciously make an effort to lessen his grip on her. “Sorry,” he mumbles, face still flushed and breathing unsteady.

Ginny shakes her head, shifting off his lap but not moving away. She leans into his shoulder, her hand sliding across his chest. His head falls back against the couch as she lingers, her fingers exploring. His eyes close, his mouth slightly open, and knowing she has this effect on him is heady.

She lets her fingers trail lower, turning her face into his neck as she settles her hand on his thigh, sliding up to press along his hipbone. His arm tightens around her waist, an unsteady sound bursting from him.

“Can I?” she asks, hand moving closer.

He stills, holding motionless a moment before nodding.

She lifts up enough to press her mouth to his, kissing him as she tentatively touches him. Harry makes an inarticulate sound against her mouth, his hand winding firmly into her hair. She’s amazed by the idea that she’s the one who’s done this to him, that being with her affects him this way. She presses closer, her chest against his as her hand continues to explore. Now Harry is the one making noises in response, and she feels each one lodge deep in her chest, finding them anything but embarrassing. Growing bolder, Ginny tightens her grip, squeezing firmly. His whole body stiffens, and she immediately stops.

“I’m sorry. Did that hurt?” She knows guys tend to be very…delicate.

He shakes his head, lowering his head against her shoulder. “No,” he says, sounding slightly strangled.

Considering she can still feel the tension in his shoulders, she somehow doubts that. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Really. It didn’t,” he says. “You’re great. _Really_ great. It’s just kind of—I mean it’s—”

She feels a little stupid when she finally gets what he’s saying, or rather what he’s _not_ saying. “It’s okay if…that happens,” she says, sliding the heel of her hand upwards, rewarded with Harry closing his eyes and letting out a low groan. “Isn’t it?”

“Bloody hell,” he mumbles, like he’s mortified to even be talking about this. Ginny’s face is doubtlessly a mottled mess too, but she refuses to go back on their promise to talk about this stuff, no matter how mortifying.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, I definitely don’t,” he rushes out, only to look embarrassed by the admission. He clears his throat. “But you really don’t have to…”

“I want to,” she says, wincing a bit at how overly eager that might have sounded.

“Really?” he says, and she tells herself he sounds eager and not horrified by her brazenness.

“I’m happy to, you know, do my part,” she says, trying to make light of her offer. “After all, I’m pretty sure I owe you.”

But this is definitely the wrong tack, Harry sitting up and pulling her hand away, and now he definitely looks horrified. “That’s not— _no_. I don’t want you—you don’t owe me _anything_.”

Ginny is completely taken aback by his vehemence. “Harry—”

He shakes his head, his hand tightening around her wrist. “I don’t _ever_ want you to do something because of that, do you understand?”

Ginny feels her breath catch in her throat, something awful blooming in her chest. “I won’t,” she says, her voice shaking. “I promise.”

Harry seems to realize he’s still gripping her arm, dropping it abruptly before dragging his hand over his face.

“I’m sorry,” she says, refusing to indulge the sudden and stupid urge to cry.

He shakes his head, blindly reaching out to grab her, pulling her into a tight hug. “No. I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just…mental.” He sounds miserable.

The tension in his body only relaxes when she hugs him back. “It was a stupid joke I clearly shouldn’t have made.” She turns her face into his neck. “I just didn’t want you to think…”

“What?” he asks, hand tangling in her hair.

“That I was being too…forward or something.”

“God, Ginny, no,” he says. “That’s not—” He breaks off, his arms tightening around her as he blows out a breath. “I’ve completely cocked this up, haven’t I?”

He sounds so sincerely wretched that she really tries not to laugh, but her emotions are clearly completely out her control right now and she can’t help the snicker that escapes her at his unfortunate word choice.

He groans in complaint, his head dropping back to the couch, and Ginny just starts laughing harder, pressing her face into his chest as she helplessly abandons herself to completely inappropriate mirth.

“This is not funny,” he complains, but she can hear it in his voice, that he’s amused against his will, his arms still warm and firm around her.

She leans back, grinning up at him. “Yes, it is.”

He tries to give her a stern look, but his eyes are sparkling with humor.

She touches his face. “Have I ever mentioned that you’re adorable when you try to look grumpy?”

“On my god, stop,” he says, fingers brushing hers away.

Somehow they are both laughing then, falling against each other, and this is much, much better, for all it’s completely barmy.

She snuggles into him, fingers absently playing with his. “Does this really feel ruined?”

His hand slides down her side, warm and slightly rough against her skin, her eyes closing at the sensation. “No,” he says.

“Good,” she says, and lifts up and kisses him.

Harry’s hand settles warm and firm on her shoulder, his lips gentle against hers. They linger there for a while, just soft and easy kisses, her hand tender on his face, both of them relaxing into the familiar comfort of it.

Only then does she press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, moving up his jaw, the barest scruff there rough under her lips, and somehow she finds the words she wants to say, finds the nerve to say them, like maybe Harry’s very skin exudes bravery, like she’s absorbing it into hers with each touch. “I’m here because I want to be here. And I offered because I wanted to be able to make you feel how you made me feel.”

For a moment he’s quiet, and she gives him the time, just letting her finger trace gently along his collarbone, but then his hands are in her hair and he’s kissing her, no longer gentle or careful, but mouth hungry on hers.

They are both breathless when he pulls back, his forehead touching hers. “I want that too,” he says.

She nods, biting down on her lower lip. “Okay.”

She pulls his mouth back down to hers, slowly shifting back towards the cushions, pulling him with her. He lets out a breath as he settles his weight on her, his leg sliding between hers. They continue to kiss, everything starting to build between them again.

Her fingers curl over the edge of his waistband, fumbling a bit with the button. “You’ll have to tell me…what works and all,” she says. 

He lets out a shaky breath. “Most days just looking at you is almost enough.”

Ginny feels a flutter of pleasure at his unexpected candor. “Flatterer,” she accuses.

He pulls back, eyes intense as he regards her. “Honesty.” 

“Well, then,” she says, tugging his trousers open. “This should be easy.”

He makes a low sound deep in his throat and then he’s kissing her, something hard and deep that makes everything else melt away.

Only once they are both breathing heavily, all hesitance and embarrassment completely forgotten, does she remember herself enough to slip her hand down inside, taking him into her hand.

“Shit,” he breathes.

Ginny smiles, pressing her mouth below his ear. “Such a dirty mouth.”

Harry doesn’t deign a response, hopefully just far too distracted by the admittedly clumsy movement of her fingers.

“Like this?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, voice hoarse as his own hand comes down to guide hers.

She’s happy to take direction, but as he said, it doesn’t take much. He presses closer, his mouth back on hers, and it’s a sloppy, out of control kiss.

She finds herself moved as much by the sheer physicality of the experience as the startling sort of vulnerability it takes to let someone else see you like this, completely unguarded and uncontrolled, that he trusts her this much.

His hand tightens around her wrist, pulling her hand away just as he groans her name against her mouth, his hips jerking forward. A moment later his whole body stiffens, rigid and tense against hers before relaxing.

He wraps his arm around her waist, holding her tight as he buries his face in her neck, his breath coming out as warm puffs against her skin. She slides her hands up and down his back, pressing in along his spine and enjoying the weight of him.

“God, Ginny,” he eventually says. “That was…” He seems incapable of further words.

“Okay?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Perfect.”

She turns to lips into his ear. “Not really. But you know what they say about practice.”

He curses under his breath, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I must be crushing you,” he says, trying to shift off her.

She tightens her arms around him. “No,” she says. “Stay.”

He pulls back just enough to see her face, eyebrows lifting in question.

“You feel…nice,” she says, knowing her cheeks are probably a bit flushed.

He shifts slightly to bear some of his weight on his arm, but not moving away. “Nice?”

Her fingers trail down his bicep, squeezing gently. “Fishing for compliments?”

He shrugs. “You know what people say about my arrogance.”

She stretches her arm above her head, pleased when Harry’s eyes drop to take advantage of the view. “Well, today I would say it was well earned.”

His eyes travel back up to her face, his expression sobering as his fingers gently touch her face. “This was…”

She nods her head, pressing her cheek into his hand. “Yeah,” she agrees.

They’d certainly charged forward rather spectacularly, and in some ways it feels like a lot, almost overwhelming to think about. But in others… She’s pretty much exactly where she wants to be.

He seems to be searching her expression for something. “No regrets?”

“Not a one,” she admits, feeling how true that is as she says it. “You?”

He smiles down at her, his thumb brushing her cheek. “No,” he says before leaning down and kissing her soft and sweet.


	3. Chapter 3

At the weekly Sunday Weasley dinner, Harry finds himself unaccountably distracted.

Well, he can easily account for his distraction if he dares to be honest with himself. Currently it is wearing a pale green shirt he’s easily seen a dozen times before. Tonight he finds it very bothersome though. It’s the same with the simple knot her hair is haphazardly pulled back in, exposing the length of her neck. The pink glossy stuff she has on her lips.

There is absolutely nothing different about Ginny tonight, except everything.

Harry isn’t sure how he does it, how he sits at the Weasley’s table and eats Sunday dinner as if he’s never seen their daughter half naked. How he sits across from Ginny eating when all he can think about is the taste of her mouth, the feel of her hand tight around his—

He swallows firmly, glancing down the table for anything to distract him from the hard ache building from his thoughts.

Ron is giving him a strange look as he shifts in his seat for a more comfortable position.

“Harry?”

He glances over at Molly, who has apparently asked him a question. “I’m sorry?”

She smiles at him. “I was just asking what you might like for your birthday dinner next week.”

“Oh,” Harry says, scrambling. “Everything you make is great.”

She smiles. “A treacle tart at least, I suppose.”

He forces an answering smile on his face. “You know me well,” he says.

Molly laughs. “I’d like to think so after all this time!”

Harry feels his smile falter.

After dinner, Harry offers to do the dishes as much for penance as for something to do with his hands. He refuses to let Molly help, and she pats him on the head fondly, which only makes him feel worse.

Ginny appears, wand in hand, ready to help dry.

“Harry,” she says quietly, the wireless in the other room easily covering their conversation. “You have to stop looking at me like that or they’re going to know.”

Her voice is stern, but her eyes are sparkling with heat that in no way helps with his discomfort.

He imagines, for a moment, leaning her back against the sink and kissing her. Wonders if he could get her to make that one sound that he likes so well.

“So what if they do?” he dares to ask, emboldened by the fire flowing through his body.

She raises an eyebrow. “You really want to tell them what we’ve been doing?”

He feels his face heat up. “Not about that,” he says, feeling frustrated in more ways than one. It’s almost like a dam somewhere has broken and he can’t get the wall back up in place. He’s rather disgusted with himself, to be honest. “I meant tell them about…us. Being, you know, together.”

He hates how awkward he sounds, how awkward he feels just saying it. They are together after all, aren’t they? How ridiculous to stumble over the words especially in the face of what’s happened between them.

Cautiously glancing over at Ginny, he feels his stomach drop.

The warmth in Ginny’s expression has vanished completely, her face transformed into a hard mask. “This is not the time or place to talk about this,” she says, voice completely uninflected. Not angry. Just cold.

She puts the dish in her hand down with deliberate care, turning and walking away without another word.

“Ginny,” Harry hisses after her as loud as he dares, but she doesn’t look back.

Cursing to himself, he goes back to washing dishes, banging them around more than is necessary as he tries to figure out what just happened. How exactly he just screwed up so terribly.

Fleur bustles in to take Ginny’s place, and Harry lets her breathless chatter flow over him, soothe his frayed temper.

Ginny won’t meet his eye for the rest of the night.

He’s left reeling in the face of this dizzying transformation, the way one moment she’s the girl he knows, the one he is honestly getting more and more in over his head with, circling towards the word he’s still too scared to even _think_ ; and the next she’s this untouchable block of ice, that terrifying girl he’s only seen in glimpses and despairs of ever understanding.

She goes up to bed first with an excuse of having some letters to finish. Harry lingers another hour, hoping she might come back down. He distracts himself with watching Ron and Hermione bicker and answering Arthur’s questions about a Muggle invention called the internet that Harry doesn’t really understand either.

“Do you really have a dragon tattoo on your chest, Harry?” George asks.

George has taken to clipping his favorite news articles during the week to mock Harry with on Sundays. Harry isn’t annoyed by it really, too happy that George can find something to laugh about, even if he isn’t quite his old jovial self.

He probably never will be.

Harry shrugs, trying his best to play along despite his abysmal mood. “The _Prophet_ would know better than me, wouldn’t it?” He peeks down the collar of his shirt as if checking to see.

They laugh.

“It’s ridiculous,” Hermione sniffs, not able to be quite so sanguine.

The unfortunate truth is that Hermione seems to bear the brunt of the more vicious coverage. She always has, ever since Rita Skeeter tried to paint her as breaking Harry’s heart back in fourth year. Even more than that though, Harry thinks it bothers her that she can’t control it. She rarely faces a problem she can’t logic her way through.

Harry has long since realized there is nothing logical about the media. Other than what George likes to tease Harry with, he pretty much doesn’t pay attention to anything people say anymore.

“It is what it is, Hermione,” he says.

She gives him a mulish look, but this is an old argument. Harry thinks if he ignores it long enough, they’ll get bored and move on to new topics. Hermione thinks a head-on attack is the only thing to do to change it.

“They’ll just keep making up more and more ridiculous things,” Hermione says.

As if to prove her point, George holds up another article. “You’re apparently having a secret relationship with a mermaid.”

Harry feels his stomach clench unpleasantly.

Ron snorts. “Just trying to explain Harry’s perpetual bachelorhood.”

“I’m barely nineteen,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice light. “Not sure how anything can be considered perpetual.”

Ron grins at him. “Yeah, well, most blokes don’t have witches throwing themselves at them all the time like you do.”

Harry feels his face burn, suddenly thankful that Ginny isn’t here to hear any of this. Frankly, that would be the last thing he needs right now.

Molly tut-tuts. “I’m sure Harry is just waiting for the right person to come along. No need to rush.” She gives Harry a fond smile, leaving him feeling even worse than he already does.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say, _She’s already come along. She’s just hiding upstairs because she’s hacked off at me._

“They’d have to be brave,” George observes, shaking out the paper. “To be willing to put up with your press.”

Ron laughs. “More like _mental_. It’s bad enough just being his best mate.”

“That reminds me,” George says. “Found a great one about you last week, Ronnikins.”

“Getting a bit late, isn’t it?” Ron says, pushing to his feet.

Harry quickly agrees, not particularly wanting to talk about this anymore. Not because he thinks Hermione is right, but because he is considering what this means for Ginny. What would the _Prophet_ have to say about her?

He imagines it for a moment, her face splashed on the front cover, people theorizing and criticizing and following her around. Treating her the way they treat him. The way they treat Hermione.

He was being impulsive back in the kitchen, he’s forced to admit. But like always, Ginny probably already clearly understands each and every implication of bringing their relationship out in the open. No wonder she shut him down so completely.

He glances at the staircase as they leave, wishing he could just go up to her room to talk to her. Another impulse Ginny would no doubt have a problem with.

After saying goodnight to Arthur and Molly, Harry walks out to the gate.

George Disapparates first. “See you lot later,” he says.

As soon as he’s gone, Hermione turns on Harry. “Are you okay?”

Harry forces a smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

Hermione doesn’t look appeased, and he wonders if his preoccupation has been obvious. “I worry about you all alone in Grimmauld Place.”

“Come off it, Hermione,” Ron says. “He’s fine.”

“I know we still don’t know about our NEWTs or anything,” Hermione presses on. “But assuming we’ll be in London...I was thinking maybe I could rent a room from you.”

Harry isn’t fooled by that for a second. “You can _have_ a room. You both can. But I don’t need a babysitter.”

He hasn’t worked up the nerve to tell them about the Department of Mysteries yet. He can already imagine Hermione’s concern, Ron’s horror. He sighs, thinking maybe he doesn’t have the right to give anyone a hard time about keeping secrets.

After a whispered conversation with Ron that Harry imagines is a command to wheedle information out of Harry, Hermione leaves first, Harry averting his eyes as Ron kisses her goodbye.

“She means well,” Ron says as he moves back to stand with him.

Harry nods. “I know. I’ll come by the shop tomorrow after I’m done watching Teddy?”

“Yeah. We can grab lunch,” Ron says, slapping him on the back. “See you then, mate.”

Ron heads back up to the house, leaving Harry alone by the gate. He glances up at the sky, talking himself out of finding some way to sneak into Ginny’s room. He hates leaving things like this. He’ll just have to write to her when he gets home. Not ideal, but it is what it is.

He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, and steps across the wards.

He’s just about ready to Disapparate when movement in the orchard catches his eye. Pulling his wand, he turns.

“Harry.”

He lifts his wand, light falling across Ginny standing a few yards away.

Glancing back at the house, he extinguishes his wand and follows her into the cover of the trees.

She’s watching him warily as he approaches, like she isn’t sure what to expect, and he’s just about to apologize when she starts talking.

“I’m sorry,” she says in a rush. “I didn’t mean to freak out like that.”

He frowns, honestly not sure at first what she means. Only Ginny Weasley would think one quietly stated sentence and a silent retreat constitutes a freak out.

He shakes his head. “Ginny.”

She takes a step forward, her hands wringing in front of her. “It just…it made sense in the beginning to keep it quiet, right? And now so much time has passed that I hadn’t thought about how to go about changing it all again. I mean, it’s going so well.” She looks at him, her teeth worrying her lower lip. “Oh, Merlin,” she says, sounding like she’s suddenly doubting herself. “It is going well, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Harry agrees, stepping closer. “It is going well. It’s going great.”

She lets out a breath, her shoulders relaxing. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You just…caught me off guard.”

He knows this about her, the way she works. That she likes time to think things through. It’s his fault for being rash. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

She shakes her head. “I need to learn to do better with surprises.”

He reaches out, tentatively touching her arm, hoping she won’t pull back away. “You mean if you’re going to be dating an impulsive Gryffindor?”

She lets out a soft huff, reaching out to touch his chest. “You said it, not me.”

He tugs slightly on her arm, wanting her nearer but not sure how to ask for it.

She immediately steps into him, hugging him tight and letting out a long breath like a sigh of relief. Harry knows how she feels, forcing himself not to hold her too tight as he drops his face to the top of her head, feeling that awful dread finally receding.

“You should know that I really don’t mind,” she says. 

“Mind what?” he asks, just relieved to have that cold silence over.

“Telling everyone. If you want.”

Exactly what he was so sure he wanted an hour ago. “I know how much it matters to you, getting a Quidditch spot on your own terms.” He can only imagine what getting her face on the cover of the _Prophet_ as the Chosen One’s girlfriend would do to all that.

“It does,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “But…you matter too.”

He can see it, that she would do this for him, even if it’s not really what she wants, and he isn’t quite sure what to do with that, this tightness building in his chest.

“No,” he says. Things _have_ been going so well, he’s loathe to change it. “It’s okay.”

She takes a moment to study his face. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She nods her agreement. “Okay,” she says, leaning back in and hugging him again. “So, first fight over?”

“Is that what that was?”

She shrugs. “Kind of felt like it.”

“Bit surprising it took this long.”

She rolls her eyes at him, and yes, this is much better. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you want to tell me exactly what you were thinking about at dinner?”

It’s hard to even remember what it’s like to have her shut down on him when she’s here in his arms, looking up at him like this.

He lowers his face to her neck. “I’d rather just show you.”

She breathes out, her hands sliding up under the back of his shirt.

This at least, he thinks, is simple.

* * *

Ginny arches her back to relieve the stiffness there as she, Ron, and Hermione walk out of the front door of the _Prophet_ offices.

“Like being back at Hogwarts,” Ron complains, apparently similarly in pain from sitting hunched over books for the last three hours. “Though Harry’s birthday is a much better cause than stupid NEWTs.”

“It certainly is,” Ginny agrees.

The last few days they’ve been spending whatever free time they can manage in the _Prophet_ archives after spending the week before at the Ministry Archives.

“It’s a good idea,” Hermione says to her, her hand casually slipping into Ron’s. “I think he’ll really like it.” 

“Ron came up with it,” Ginny says, despite the fact that she rather carefully planted the idea a few months ago. It’s not like she could give Harry a gift this elaborate and personal without raising eyebrows.

Ron looks pleased by her compliment. “He helped give my family back to me, it’s only fair that we do what we can to give him his back as well.”

Ginny smiles at her brother, feeling a flood of warmth for what a good friend he is to Harry.

“And mine,” Hermione says, no doubt thinking of his help locating her parents.

“Well, he also got an extended vacation in Australia out of the deal,” Ginny reminds her, knowing Hermione still harbors more than her fair share of guilt over the entire debacle.

She shakes her head. “I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way. It wasn’t easy for him, being there.”

Ron snorts. “There’s an understatement. He really started losing his mind at the end there, didn’t he?”

“Yes, well,” Hermione says, “after things with Cass fell apart…”

Ginny feels a little jolt at the muggle woman’s name, even as she refuses to show it. She’s never heard either of them mention Cass before.

“He was hardly heart-broken,” Ron scoffs. “He looked relieved to be clear of it if you ask me. I still half suspect he only dated her to get you off his back.”

Hermione is clearly affronted by that. “She was perfectly nice! They had fun together.”

Ron gives her an affectionate look. “You say like you didn’t literally ambush him with her at Christmas dinner.” He glances over at Ginny as if to share in amusement at this tidbit.

Ginny bites her tongue not to ask for any details, even as she feels something hard in her chest at the realization that Hermione had pushed the whole thing on him. Not that it matters. He was only doing what he was supposed to do. Ginny doesn’t need to know what Harry really meant by whatever happened with Cass being _almost_ nothing. And if she does decide she wants to know, she sure as hell isn’t going to try to get it from Ron and Hermione.

No matter how tempting.

“Yes, well,” Hermione says. “Sometimes Harry needs a push for his own good.”

Ron groans. “You’re not at this again are you?”

“You say that like I’m not just concerned with his happiness!”

“Have you _seen_ him lately?” Ron says. “He’s almost annoying, he’s so happy. I’ve rarely seen him brood or frown.”

Ginny looks down at her feet, fighting what is probably a stupid smile on her face.

“He could always be _happier_ ,” Hermione insists. Before Ginny can even open her mouth to point out how ridiculous that sounds, Hermione is blissfully pressing on. “Speaking of people who could use a little nudge, I wonder if George will be there tonight?”

And that is one final piece of meddling Ginny will not accept. “You know, some people actually _prefer_ being single for a wide variety of reasons. I don’t think you should make gross assumptions that people are only single because they can’t find someone. Or because there is something wrong with them.” 

Hermione stops walking, turning to look at Ginny with her mouth open. “I never said there was!”

“I think you hit a nerve, Hermione,” Ron says, patting Ginny on the shoulder. “No need to get so defensive. I’m sure she didn’t mean you, Gin.”

She shrugs him off. “I didn’t think she did. That doesn’t invalidate my point.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Hermione says, chin lifted stubbornly.

“No,” Ginny says. “You’re assuming you know what’s best for everyone. There’s a difference.”

With that, she strides ahead into the pub, not caring that she can practically feel Ron and Hermione sharing looks with each other behind her back. Blast the both of them anyway.

Inside, Harry is already there, talking with George. Hermione’s would-be victims helpfully both in one place.

Ginny takes a deep breath, annoyed with herself for losing her temper. It’s not like she yelled or anything, barely even raised her voice, but she’d let Hermione’s myopic meddling push her into speaking before she thought. And she’ll no doubt pay for it with the cold shoulder from her for a while. Which, _fine_. Ginny still doesn’t regret saying it.

Harry looks up as the door closes behind her, smiling at her. She smiles back at him, striding up to George and pulling him down to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Nice to see you.”

“Ugh, gerroff,” he complains, but she feels his hand squeeze her arm all the same.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I’ll leave you big manly men to your own devices.”

“Damn straight,” George mumbles, patting down his hair as if she’s upset his look.

“Hi, Harry,” she says, carefully casual even as she lets her hand brush his arm as she walks past.

“Hey, Ginny,” he says, looking like maybe if his hand weren’t busy already holding a pint, he might have been tempted to reach for her.

She forces herself to keep moving, crossing over to the bar.

If she’s honest with herself, she has to admit that a lot of her loss of temper with Hermione actually stems from something else entirely. Because Hermione wouldn’t be trying to maneuver Harry if they weren’t still keeping their relationship a secret. And if there is one thing Ginny knows, it’s that Harry loathes being maneuvered. Probably doubly so when it comes to his personal life. He shouldn’t have to deal with that. And it’s her fault if he does.

But it’s only six weeks until her trials begin, she tells herself. And another month until she’ll know if she has her spot. And then Harry won’t have to worry about fending off Hermione’s misguided attempts to fix his life anymore. Well, at least not when it comes to dating, that is. Lord knows Hermione will always find something else to fix. 

She pulls herself up onto a stool next to Luna, who is chatting with Hannah behind the bar.

“Ah, the witch of the hour,” Ginny says, giving Luna a hug.

This gathering is her going-away party before she and her father take off for a three-month expedition to South America. It’s the first they’ve all been together since the graduation party. Tom even agreed to close the pub to the public for the event, both to make it more intimate and to keep the press off of them, or Harry more specifically.

Luna is leaving in two days. She’s hopeful that when they return, her father might feel well enough to begin his work on the _Quibbler_ again. Back to the original focus of the paper. No more politics, she said like it was an inconvenience.

Of course, that leaves them with nothing but the _Prophet_ for news these days, unfortunately.

“You asked George to come?” Ginny asks, still surprised to see her brother here. Beyond family gatherings, he hasn’t been one for public events.

“Oh, no,” Luna says. “He said as my business partner, he owed it to me to bless my next enterprise.”

It’s the money she earned from selling the charms to George that is allowing her and her father to undertake their trip. He’s still working on modifying the charms and developing the final look before marketing them. “Sure, this is great for passing notes to friends at school,” George said, “but even the Ministry would probably want to use these if I do it properly.”

Ginny’s just glad to see the two working together for their shared benefit.

Luna chats about her plans for a while, Hannah sharing a few anecdotes of her time working at the pub. Ginny scans the space, her eyes automatically searching for Harry, only to bite back a curse when she finds him.

Hermione has clearly been busy in the fifteen minutes she’s been here, not having taken Ginny’s words to heart at all. There are at least three witches in addition to Hermione now standing around Harry, George having apparently abandoned him.

“Merlin,” Ginny curses under her breath. _Romilda of all people, really, Hermione?_

Harry sends a panicked look in her direction. She gives him a bracing smile to let him know she’s aware this is not his fault.

Ginny leans into Luna. “It looks like Harry could use a rescue.”

“Oh, dear,” Luna says, looking over at him. “Yes. He does look very uncomfortable. And since he saved me from Malfoy Manor, I suppose it is only a fair exchange.” She hops down off her stool.

Ginny and Hannah share a look, still a little thrown when Luna actually mentions her time in captivity.

They watch in silence as Luna approaches Harry, slipping her hand through his arm. He’s stiff at first until he realizes who it is, and then he’s smiling down at her with real relief. She says something that makes the eyes of the girls widen, and then Harry is laughing, looking genuinely amused.

Ginny turns back to Hannah, content that Harry is in good hands. “Where’s Neville?”

Hannah gestures across the room where Neville sits in a booth looking rather dejected. “I tried to talk to him…”

Ginny sighs. “Yeah. I’ll give it a go, okay?” She hops down to her feet, picking up her pint. “Boys. Always needing to be rescued.”

Hannah smiles. “What would they do without us?”

“Oh, lead pathetic lives, no doubt.”

Hannah rolls her eyes and shoos Ginny away.

“Hey,” she says to Neville as she slides into the booth next to him.

“Hey,” he says, giving her a smile that is insincere at best.

She nudges his shoulder. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he says.

“So Luna’s going to be gone for a while,” she says, trying to walk delicately around the subject.

“Ginny,” he says, a warning there that she happily ignores. Perhaps delicate isn’t going to cut it.

“So did you guys…break up?”

He laughs. “No. We weren’t really together in the first place, were we?”

Ginny isn’t sure what to do with that, with the slight bitterness in his tone.

His shoulders drop as he lets out a breath, rubbing at his forehead. “You know that she thanked me? For being such a good friend.”

Ginny winces. “I’m sorry, Neville.” 

He shakes his head. “I’m not mad. I’m not even really hurt. I mean, it’s _Luna_. She’ll always be Luna. And I want her to be. I can’t say I wanted to be with her forever or anything like that. I guess I just realized…I do want forever. With someone.”

“Well,” Ginny says. “Don’t let Hermione hear you say that. She’s on a rampage with setting people up.”

He laughs. “Is that why Harry looks like he wants to disappear even more than usual?”

She glances over to where Harry is now sitting with Luna and Dean and Seamus, looking much more comfortable, even if he’s still shooting wary glances at the clutch of witches hanging about nearby. “Luna seems to have rescued him.”

Neville smiles, watching her a bit wistfully.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Can I stop you?” he jokes.

“Doubtful,” she says.

He lets out a huff, gesturing for her to go ahead.

“Do you regret it? What happened with you two?”

His cheeks burn, lifting his ale. “It was certainly…educational.”

Ginny winds her hand through his arm, resting against his shoulder. “I can only imagine.”

Neville sighs, the two of them sitting in silence for a while. “No,” he eventually says, like coming to some sort of decision. “I don’t regret it.”

Ginny nods. “Good.” She pushes to her feet, tugging on his arm. “Now come on. Why don’t we give Harry another layer of protection?”

“Sounds good,” he says and follows her over to their friends.

* * *

Dawn has finally given way to day when Ginny walks back into the kitchen after her morning session in the paddock. She practices with her broom every morning, though she usually just goes for a run before breakfast, waiting for Ron to get up so he can run drills with her.

Today, however, she got it out of the way early.

By the time she’s showered and changed, Ron is finally down in the kitchen having breakfast. She helps herself to some of the food, sitting down across from him, the two of them settling into early morning silence.

“I’m visiting Tilly today,” Ginny says to him as she takes her plate to the sink and sets it washing. “Tell Hermione I’ll meet her at the archives tomorrow.”

“You aren’t still sore at her, are you?” Ron asks, looking exasperated.

Ginny bites back a sigh of annoyance. “I am visiting Tilly today, Ron. It’s been planned for weeks. I haven’t come up with some elaborate plan just to avoid your girlfriend, no matter how annoying I find her sometimes.”

Ron’s eyes narrow, his ears turning a bit red.

Before they can get into a row, Ginny makes a quick escape.

She Apparates to the edge of the enormous Bassenthwaite estate, gently rolling green hills stretching in all directions with small copses of trees gathered here and there along a stream. Passing through the wards at the edge of the property, Ginny walks down the main path that cuts a rigidly straight line through the space in strange incongruity to the bucolic fields around it. Before she can reach the main house—a hulking Tudor monstrosity growing in the distance as she nears—she turns off the main drive to follow a small path through a lightly-wooded area. It opens out again onto a pond glistening in the early morning light. A small dowager cottage sits on the far shore. It is a low, timber-framed building with a sloping thatch roof.

It looks nothing like a prison. Though that doesn’t make it any less of one, her two friends as good as incarcerated here for a full year.

“Ginny,” Tilly says, stepping out the front door. She looks much the same as the last time Ginny saw her, wearing simple, utilitarian robes of a rough spun grey. She looks tired though, a little worn.

“Hi, Tilly,” Ginny says.

Tilly’s chin lifts. “That’s Mistress Bassenthwaite to you.”

“I do beg your pardon, my lady,” Ginny says, sketching out a lopsided curtsey.

“Oh, stop that,” Tilly says, stepping forward and grabbing Ginny in a tight hug. The hug lingers, Tilly’s arms tight around her. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Of course,” Ginny says. “One must respect one’s elders and betters after all.”

Tilly laughs, something rough in her throat. “Come on. Come inside.”

In the cottage, Ginny hands over the basket of scones and preserves she’s still holding, feeling like they are two heroines in some old gothic novel. “Mum said she would disown me if I came empty-handed.”

“Of course,” Tilly says, taking it from her. Placing it on the table, she pulls out all the food, pausing slightly when she uncovers the trashy, ridiculous magazines tucked out of sight underneath.

“Those are from me,” Ginny says. She took up a collection from all their friends, trying to find anything to keep Tilly amused. “There’s a particularly interesting serial story in the Witch Weeklies about a witch’s tempestuous escapades with her merman lover that I thought you might appreciate.”

Tilly huffs. “I do love a good cross-species romance,” she says. “Now. Let’s get the tour over with, shall we?”

The cottage makes the Burrow feel spacious, everything built to scale for two people exactly. Just a kitchen with a table for two, a small sitting area at the front of the house, and a single bedroom with an attached bath. The bedroom, Ginny notices as she looks around, has a single bed, though she doesn’t miss the pile of linens and pillows on the floor that looks hastily kicked half-under the bed. One corner of the room is dominated by a distillery that quietly gurgles away.

Ginny is relieved to see she hasn’t given up her passion for alchemy in the face of her marriage and enforced solitude. Probably the only thing keeping her sane if her letters are anything to judge by.

There’s no sign of Bassenthwaite, though from what Ginny knows of the marriage bonds they were submitted to, he must be very near.

They settle back at the table, nibbling at scones. “So what is this place usually used for?” Ginny asks. She can’t imagine they built it just for the newly wedded couple, it feeling far too old.

“Oh,” Tilly says, eyes lighting up. “That is an excellent story. Apparently one of the Bassenthwaite ancestors was a philandering arsehole. Huge surprise, I know. He built this place to house his bit of fluff, just close enough to be convenient for him, but also placed for his wife to see from her bedchamber.”

“Well,” Ginny says. “That’s a particular level of petty.”

“It is, isn’t it? Apparently it’s in the bloodline.”

Ginny slides her a look.

“My adoring husband aside, of course,” she demurs, lips twisting.

“Seems an auspicious place to house a newly married couple,” Ginny says, voice wry.

“Oh, you don’t even know the half of it,” Tilly says, leaning in. “It’s said that the wife came down to confront her husband’s mistress.”

“Don’t tell me this isn’t just an adulterous cottage but a murderous one too.”

Tilly shakes her head. “Oh, no. _Better_. Apparently the wife and the mistress struck up a friendship, the wife eventually moving in and living with her for the rest of her life.”

Ginny lifts her eyebrows. “You mean…”

“They fell in love,” she confirms, picking up her teacup with a smile. “And the philandering arsehole ended up moldering away in that great miserable pile. Alone.” She sighs, looking off into the distance as if imagining it with great pleasure.

“How did you hear this?” Ginny asks, having a hard time imagining Bassenthwaite’s rather sanctimonious parents sharing a story like that.

“Oh, turns out Tristram has a great auntie, or father’s cousin’s sister’s whatever. She looks like a veritable dragon and is as old as Perenelle, but turned out to have a wicked sense of humor and a great memory for family history and scandal. She comes every Sunday. In charge of checking the bond, you know.” Tilly’s expression falters.

“So,” Ginny says when the silence stretches uncomfortably long. “When is Nicola coming?”

This has the desired effect, Tilly’s face brightening. “Day after tomorrow. She’s staying the whole week.”

Ginny glances around the space again. “It’ll be a tight fit, I imagine.”

Tilly shrugs as if supremely unconcerned with the bother. “She’s just as eager to come as I am to have her. She doesn’t mind sleeping on the couch.” Her lips press together. “Her aunt is apparently pleased to have her out from under foot.”

Nicola’s living situation is less than ideal, being stuck with relatives who are resentful at best and at worst neglectful. As if losing her parents and a sister weren’t enough. Ginny taps her fingers against the table in agitation. Nicola deserves much better. She glances at Tilly. They all do.

She forces herself to take a breath. “She’ll be seventeen in less than a year.”

“A year can be a long bloody time.”

Ginny stretches her hand out, squeezing Tilly’s. “You’re halfway there.” Six more months and she and Bassenthwaite will be free and clear of his meddling parents, officially and bindingly married, and able to go where they please, live however they wish.

But her year-long incarceration in this cottage is a topic Tilly never wants to discuss. “Tell me about your trip. I want to live vicariously.”

Ginny lets her change the topic without resistance, detailing her plans to visit Tawang. When her parents had asked her what she wanted as a graduation present, it was the one thing she asked for, even if it meant it was her birthday and Christmas present for the next five years.

“I’ll be there ten days. Smita has to work for some of it, but there’s the village to explore and apparently a lot of amazing hiking nearby, so that will keep me busy.”

“And Muggles and Wizards really live openly there together?” Tilly asks.

“Apparently. I guess I’ll see when I get there.”

“It’s hard to believe.”

“What’s hard to believe is how many International Floo stops I have to make to get there. How many checkpoints. It’s going to take me almost an entire day.”

“Still sounds worth it,” Tilly says with a sigh. Considering she won’t go further than the manor house for another six months, Ginny doesn’t blame her. It would be claustrophobic.

“It will be,” Ginny says.

Tilly nods. “I want letters. Long, thrilling tales even if you have to make them up.”

She’ll hardly be there long enough to warrant many letters, but it’s the least she can do. “I promise.”

They chat a while longer before Ginny finally asks the question she’s been avoiding. “Where’s Tristram?”

Tilly waves her hand vaguely toward the kitchen. “Out back. That’s where he spends most of his time.”

“Do you mind if I go say hello?”

Tilly shakes her head. “Feel free.”

She crosses the kitchen, noticing a rear door. It opens out onto a small porch that is partially framed in. Bassenthwaite sits hunched over a small table, his hands working at something, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Hey,” she says.

“Six,” he says, turning to look at her, a small wooden figurine and a knife in his hands. “Nice of you to drop by. I hope my wife has been the proper hostess.” He says _my wife_ with a certain asperity that has Ginny wincing. This marriage was never his choice.

“She is every inch a gentlewitch.”

Bassenthwaite snorts.

Ginny crosses over and squeezes his shoulder, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.

He bats her away good-naturedly. “None of that now,” he complains gruffly.

She settles on the bench next to him, looking around the small space. There’s a jumble of still parts and bottles lined against one side, and a shelf filled with various books, some of which are quite familiar to Ginny.

“Tobias has been by, I see,” Ginny says.

Bassenthwaite nods. “Comes once a week or so. Always pushing his rudding books on me.”

Ginny laughs. “Yes, well. He likes to think they can solve anything.”

He snorts. “Never been much of a reader.”

“So this is where you spend most of your time?” 

“Technically it’s attached to the house,” he says, gesturing to where the roof intersects with the wall of the cottage. “So as long as I don’t stay out here too long, nothing will happen.”

The magical bond that had been part of their marriage ceremony, she knows he means. The one that doesn’t allow them to be away from each other for the first year. “What does happen?”

He looks at her with surprise. “You don’t know?”

All Ginny knows is it was originally intended as a ‘blessing’ for young couples, a year away from work, shut away together, and also helpful in insuring the fidelity of the marriage--and the firstborn heir. No cuckoos in the nest if neither of you have been away from each other.

They’re archaic rituals that haven’t actually been used in ages. Bassenthwaite’s parents must have really dug up some ancient forgotten laws to enact them. Or punish them, more aptly.

“She doesn’t talk about it,” Ginny says. 

He huffs. “I’m not surprised.”

“Tell me.”

He rolls his shoulders. “You just start to feel sick after a bit. Like you ate something bad? Then you get sweaty. And weak. Eventually you pass out, I suppose.”

She frowns. It sounds barbaric. “But it won’t…it doesn’t do anything permanent to you, right?” Just how vindictive are his parents?

He laughs. “It doesn’t kill you, no. More like a detox. Drawn out misery like you have to sweat the magic out of your system. And when it’s done, the bond is broken. And so is the contract.”

Meaning all the property and inheritance would revert back to the preferred heir—the magical cousin. The _whole_ cousin.

Ginny considers that Bassenthwaite seems to know the symptoms far more intimately than just reading about it a book. “How far did you make it?” she asks.

“Who says I tried?”

She gives him an unimpressed look.

“I only did it once,” he says defensively.

“How far did you get?”

He mutters something under his breath that is rather unflattering towards her. He gestures towards the long sloping fields to the east. “Edge of the property.”

“Why?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I guess I just needed to know that I had some free will after all, you know? That I could do it if I wanted. But when I got back, Tilly was wrapped in a blanket looking miserable, dark bruises under her eyes. I’d done that to her. Throwing my little fit. And I finally realized the truth.”

“The truth?”

His shoulders lift, the gesture full of resignation and acceptance. “I’ll never have any free will. That died back in the castle.”

There is absolutely nothing she can say to that, no platitude, because he very well may be right.

Some things she just can’t fix.

So instead she sits on the bench next to him and leans against his shoulder, the two of them sitting and saying nothing.

* * *

At dinner that night it’s just Ginny and her parents, Ron apparently out with Hermione. Probably for the best considering Ron is more than likely still sore at her and Hermione definitely is. Unfortunately Harry is watching Teddy this evening while Andromeda has dinner with an old school friend, so she won’t get to see him either. It doesn’t help her mood much.

That evening she spends a long time crafting a letter to Hermione, going through at least five drafts. She isn’t going to apologize, but she also knows Hermione holds a grudge like nobody’s business. Ginny will have to be the one to reach out first.

Besides, she honestly needs her help. Some of her relentless meddling habits are actually quite useful, Ginny is forced to admit. Especially if they can be guided in the right direction.

_What do you know about Squib property and inheritance rights? Have you ever come across anything on the subject? I know it probably isn’t something you’ve studied much, but since you were considering going into Magical Law, I thought maybe you’d seen something. If you could let me know, I would really appreciate it._

_I’ll be at the Prophet offices tomorrow at ten._

_-Ginny_

She sends the letter off with Pig. Things will be frosty between them for a while, but they will eventually thaw. They always do.

Still, even with the letter written, she can’t settle down to sleep, picking up the latest book Tobias sent her with instructions to read and write back with her thoughts. It’s a book by some Muggle called Hemingway, and ten pages in Ginny wrote Tobias and said, _I’ve barely started and I think it’s insufferably awful._ To which he only replied, _Keeping reading, you ingrate._

It’s near midnight when Ginny hears the gentle hum of an arriving message. She rolls over, glancing at the parchment on her bedside table. It’s late for Harry to be writing, but she’s too happy to hear from him to care.

_Are you up?_

She searches around her bedside table drawer, digging out a quill. _Yeah._

_Meet me outside._

She looks down at the words in surprise. _When?_ she writes back.

_Now._

Crossing over to her window, she pulls back her curtain to glance out into the yard. At first she doesn’t see anything, but after a moment she catches movement by the broom shed.

Pulling on a jumper and shoes, she grabs her wand and quietly eases out of her room and down the stairs. Slipping off the back porch, she rounds the side of the broom shed. Harry is waiting there for her looking very pleased with himself. Almost as pleased as she is to see him.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” she says, stepping up and wrapping her arms around him. She lets her head fall against his chest.

“Everything alright?” he asks, voice low.

“Not really,” she says. She looks up at him. “But much better now.”

“Yeah?”

She lifts up to kiss him, but he steps back away, looking sheepish. “Um. Hold that thought?” he asks.

“Why?”

“Just…give me a minute, okay? There’s something…” He glances down, apparently getting momentarily distracted as he notices her state of dress. Or undress as the case may be. His eyes linger on her legs.

“Harry?”

“Right,” he says, wrenching his eyes back up to her face. “Just trust me. Okay?”

“You’re being very mysterious.”

He holds his hand out for hers. She takes it, and after giving her a boyish smile full of glee, he begins to lead her away from the shed, the two of them darting across the yard and out towards the pond.

“Harry,” she laughs when they are far enough from the house not to worry about being overheard. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer, just smiles back at her and keeps pulling her along. Every once in a while he stops, orienting himself before adjusting their path. They are nearly at the edge of the property by the time he starts to slow.

“Here,” he finally says, pulling her to stop in front a tree that is beginning to look familiar.

“Harry,” she says, looking around just to be sure.

He holds up his lit wand to the old battered watch given to him by her parents for his 17th birthday, and she can see that it’s a few minutes past midnight.

“It’s July 28th,” Harry says, dowsing the light.

“So it is.”

He reaches for her waist, finally drawing her close. “Two years ago today, I kissed you for the first time.” He takes a few steps, pulling her with him until they are directly under the tree. “Right here.”

Ginny finds she has to swallow back against pressure in her throat. She touches his face. “The great Harry Potter, a closet romantic,” she murmurs.

“Another secret I’m trusting you with,” he teases.

“Oh, I’m just collecting them for my tell-all book. Going to make a _fortune_.”

“I thought a Slytherin never tells.”

“Luckily for you.”

He leans into her, touching his forehead to hers. He seems to struggle a moment, clearly trying to come up with something to say. He eventually blows out a breath and says, “You’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, Gin,” the words very nearly a tangled mess. 

Ginny bites down on the inside of her lip, everything rising up all at once, and she thinks that if she tries to say a single word, she’ll utterly disgrace herself. So instead she nods vehemently in agreement and lifts up on her toes to kiss him, pouring everything she can into it.

Hopefully letting him know that he means more to her than she could ever even attempt to say.


	4. Chapter 4

Teddy lets out a squeal of delight as Harry lifts his knee. The toddler bounces up in the air and he’s barely settled back down against Harry’s leg before he slaps the back of his hand in request for more, accompanied by a garbled string of sounds.

“Is that so, little man?” Harry says, leaning his face down to Teddy’s.

Teddy repeats the hand gesture. “Up,” he says.

One of his earliest and most often used words, whether as a request to be held or to fly through the air. The higher the better. 

Harry dutifully complies, bouncing his knee up and down a few more times. Teddy’s hair is radiantly fairy-floss pink, signaling his current state of joy.

“Me too, Ted,” Harry says, grinning down at him. “Me too.”

It’s a perfect Saturday at the Burrow, almost the entire family here, Hermione, Andromeda, and Teddy included. They’d dragged the long table out into the yard and a gentle breeze keeps it from being uncomfortably hot.

“Ah, here we are,” Molly says as Arthur floats a large cake across the yard to settle on the table in front of Harry. It’s thick with icing, a large green H in the middle surrounded by sparkling candles.

“It looks amazing,” he says, turning Teddy around so he can see it.

Before Harry can stop him, Teddy’s hand darts out to the cake, grabbing a handful of icing.

Everyone laughs as Teddy shoves his fist in his mouth.

“Gonna be a Seeker, this one,” Harry says, pulling him more firmly back against his chest before he can grab a candle and hurt himself.

Teddy turns to him, offering up his icing-covered fist.

Harry leans down, nibbling a little off his finger, making Teddy laugh. “Mmm. It’s good.”

“Blow out the bloody candles so we can all have some then, will you?” Ron says with a laugh from next to him.

Careful to keep Teddy far enough away from the candles, Harry leans forward and blows them out, only having to go back a second round for two or three of them.

Everyone cheers.

Molly beams at him. “Happy birthday, dear.”

“Thanks, Molly,” he says.

“Of course,” she says briskly, like it’s no big deal. “Ginny, help me with the plates.”

Ginny, sitting across the table from Harry, pulls her wand and floats cake-laden plates to everyone as Molly cuts pieces. After the first one settles in front of Harry, each one seems to cross directly in front of Ron before sailing on to someone else.

Harry catches her eye, trying to give her a stern look for clearly tweaking her brother, but she just blinks back at him with perfect innocence.

When the next plate swoops out of Ron’s reach to land in front of a snickering George, Harry deliberately slides his own plate over to Ron. “Here, mate.”

Ginny’s eyes narrow, even as she dutifully supplies the birthday boy with another piece. “You’re no fun.”

Harry looks down at Teddy, bounding his knee a bit. “That is outrageous, vicious slander, isn’t it, Ted.”

Teddy doesn’t take his eyes from Harry’s cake. “Mo’,” he declares.

After cake, Harry works his way through a modest stack of gifts, Teddy more a hindrance than a help at this point, not that he minds. He has a nice collection of sweets, some knitted socks, a book on curse-breaking from a winking Bill, and a deep burgundy tee shirt that says SAVE A BROOM, RIDE A SEEKER.

Harry quickly shoves that one out of sight, but not before Percy can look scandalized and George and Ron fall into near-hysterics.

Harry very deliberately doesn’t look at Ginny.

“Just one more,” Ron says once he recovers. “Ginny, do you have it?”

“On it,” she says, getting up from the table and heading inside the house.

She comes back with a square box in her hands. Rather than putting it on the table, she says, “Now guess what it is.”

Harry eyes the dimensions of the package. “A broom,” he says.

She rolls her eyes at the ridiculous guess. “No.”

“A dragon?” he tries again, looking down at Teddy. His eyes go wide at the mention of a dragon.

“And risk Charlie’s wrath?” Ron says.

“Well then,” Harry says. “It’s definitely a car.”

“Be serious, Harry,” Hermione says, laughing.

“Here, swap,” Ron says, taking the box from Ginny and nodding at Teddy.

“What?” she asks, looking confused.

“Take Teddy,” he says with exasperation.

“Oh,” she says, looking at Harry and then Teddy. She squats down so her face is level with his. “What do you say, love?”

Teddy seems to regard her for a long moment, and Harry doesn’t miss that Ginny looks a little nervous. Eventually Teddy’s grip loosens on Harry and he lets himself get passed off.

Ginny carefully settles him against her hip, expression vaguely triumphant. At least until Teddy pulls his fist from his mouth and presses it against her neck.

She pulls his hand away only to frown down at the saliva on her fingers. “Are they always this…viscous?” she asks, looking mildly revolted.

Harry laughs, having long since gotten used to the way Teddy seems to ooze. “He’s teething.”

She frowns. “I’ll take your word for that.”

He hands her a cloth. She takes it, walking away with Teddy on one hip, her steps awkwardly bouncing as she tries to appease the toddler as she wipes at his face. Seeing her with Teddy is doing strange things to Harry’s insides.

“This is from us,” Ron says, tapping the top of the box as if to help him refocus. “Ginny too. We roped her into helping.”

Harry rips away the wrapping, pulling off the top of the box. Inside is a large leather-covered album, the word POTTER embossed in gold. He glances up in question, and Ron just gestures for him to get on with it.

Harry removes the album, careful to pick a spot free of icing. He opens the cover, passing another page that says POTTER in gilt, only to be confronted with what looks like newspaper clippings. At first he thinks they’ve actually collected together all his ridiculous press as a gag, only then he notices that they are actually old.

There are clippings from the _Prophet_ and other newspapers, many yellowing and worn, but each one talking about a different Potter. There’s an engagement announcement for Fleamont Potter and Euphemia Alluri—the only faces he immediately recognizes. But there is also an opinion piece on the strange notions of pro-Muggle Henry Potter. A Potter called Linus who apparently made quite a scandal with his outlandish fashion sense. Delilah Potter who refused to marry and instead tromped around the world in, of all things, _trousers_ , the article announces with clear scandalous horror.

Pages and pages and pages of his ancestors and relatives. Their faces, their actions, their words.

“So you don’t, you know, feel like you came out of a dragon egg,” Ron says, giving him a friendly nudge.

Harry glances towards Ginny at the familiar words, but she’s busy carefully detangling her hair from Teddy’s grasp.

“Thank you,” Harry says, having to swallow hard against the lump in his throat. “It’s…amazing. Really.”

Hermione beams at him. “It was ever so interesting. Your family seems to have a thing for…mischief.”

Ron laughs, slapping Harry on the shoulder. “Fortunately our man Harry here likes the quiet, conventional life.”

Bill scoffs. “What was it Auntie Muriel said? Potters have always had more passion than sense.”

“Well,” Ron says, looking delighted by that nugget. “You know how we all hate to say Muriel is ever right, and yet…”

Harry rolls his eyes, carefully flipping through more pages, Ron and Hermione occasionally pointing out particular favorites.

After a while he hears Teddy give out a fussy complaint, not quite a full cry, but close enough that Harry knows what it means. Looking over, he sees Ginny trying to appease him, talking lowly to him as she pats his back and sways. Teddy remains restless, body jerky as he rubs at one eye with a fist. His wails, Harry knows, will only get louder, a fate further signaled by the dull brown his hair has settled into.

Harry gets up, crossing over to help, but Andromeda gets there first, lifting her grandson from Ginny’s arms. He quiets, nuzzling down into her neck as he continues to softly fuss.

“I think I’ll take him home,” she says as Harry approaches.

He nods. “Probably for the best.” He ducks down to see Teddy’s face, hand patting his back. “Thanks for celebrating with me. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Teddy turns his face back into Andromeda’s chest. She smiles, rubbing the exhausted toddler’s back.

Andromeda gestures for Harry to come closer, and he dutifully tilts his head. She surprises him by pressing a brisk kiss to his cheek. “Happy birthday, Harry,” she says, smiling at him.

He feels his face warm, a bit thrown by this unprecedented display of affection, but pleased all the same. “It was. Thanks.”

She nods in farewell to Ginny before crossing over to find Molly and Arthur. Harry returns his attention to Ginny, and despite her perfectly serene expression, he can’t help but think she’s a little disgruntled to have ‘failed’ at baby handling.

“He was just tired,” Harry says. “Nothing to be done but put him to bed at this point.”

“You just make it look easy,” she says, almost an accusation.

“Do I?” he asked, bemused. It’s only been six months since he was terrified at even the thought of being near him.

“He’s really lucky to have you.”

They stare at each other a long moment, and Harry’s just about to say, _I’m lucky to have you_ , when George yells across the yard at him.

“Hey, Fleamy! You never told us your grandmother was a looker!”

Eyes narrowing, Harry turns to find Ginny’s brothers all gathered around his album. They’re passing what looks like a bottle of firewhiskey between them.

“Too bad you clearly didn’t inherit that from her,” Bill heckles.

After a quick glance around to make sure Molly won’t see it, Harry sends the lot of them a little two-fingered salute, the Weasley brothers only laughing uproariously in response.

“I would have to beg to differ,” Ginny says, voice low.

Harry shoots her a look, but Ron is already calling to him. “Come and have a drink, Fleamy!” Someone has clearly filled him in on that little nickname from Easter at Muriel’s, and _of course_ Ron would immediately adopt it wholeheartedly.

Harry closes his eyes, pinching at his nose. “I really don’t like your brothers.”

“Go,” Ginny says, voice full of laughter as she gives him a little push. “Enjoy yourself. I’m going to change into a shirt not covered in drool and half-masticated cake.”

Harry resists the urge to look at her shirt, instead keeping his attention straight ahead as he murmurs, “Sure you don’t need help with that?”

Ginny makes a funny little sound. “Don’t offer something you’re not in a position to provide, Harry.”

“Ugh,” he says, suddenly wishing they were anywhere but here. “And I was having such a nice birthday.”

Fortunately for them both, Ginny is smart enough to go inside then, leaving Harry to cross back over to her brothers.

“Just one,” he says, reaching for the glass George holds out to him.

“Would someone please remind Harry that today he turns nineteen and not ninety?” George says.

Percy opens his mouth.

“Not you,” George says. “And no, we don’t care that you have to work tomorrow.” He shoves a glass into Percy’s hand.

“Harry’s probably never even been pissed,” Bill says with a sly wink.

Ron laughs. “Oh, no. He holds a lot more liquor than you’d think to look at him. And Muggles don’t mess around when it comes to booze. At least not the Australian ones.”

“That was just self-defense,” Harry says, not liking the insinuation that he’s a lush. “Having to hang about with you two making cow eyes at each other for months on end.”

Bill snorts. “Seems like sound reasoning to me.”

“Oh, yes,” Ron says, cheeks flushed enough that Harry wonders how many rounds he’s already missed. “Harry was such a paragon of virtue.” He lets and exaggerated cough, the word _blondes_ clearly still audible.

“Quick,” Bill calls out. “Alert _Witch Weekly_ immediately! The Boy Who Lived has a type.”

“That is _not_ my type,” Harry says without thinking. Before anyone can think to press, he throws back the last of whisky in his glass, puffing out his chest and saying, “And that’s _Man_ Who Lived, okay?”

This only riles them all further, and they spend the next fifteen minutes abusing his manhood.

“Have you all forgotten it’s my birthday?” he complains.

“Nope,” George says, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “Now what’s the over/under on how many chest hairs he’s managed thus far?”

Harry escapes after the third round of drinks with a claim of needing the loo. This, of course, only earns him another round of ribbing about his ability to ‘hold’ his drink.

“There’s a tree right there!”

Harry ignores them, ducking into the house. He’s definitely not drunk, more feeling very mellow and content, and that might have nothing at all to do with the whiskey.

On his way back down from the loo, Ginny steps out of her room. Sadly she’s already managed to put a new shirt on to replace the one Teddy wrecked.

“Got a minute?” she asks, gesturing her head back towards her room.

For her, he _definitely_ does. Glancing both ways to make sure they’re unobserved, he follows after her.

He’s never really been in her room before. It’s tiny, even smaller than Ron’s and he imagines Hermione being in here too must be a tight fit. Glancing around, he takes in the window seat under fluttering pink curtains, the front walk visible outside. There’s not much other than a comfy-looking chair and a dressing table stacked with paperbacks and parchment and quills. And the bed, of course.

“Just one more thing for you,” Ginny says, gesturing at a box wrapped with brightly colored paper that is sitting on her bed.

“You already got me more than enough,” he says, knowing without asking that she somehow put the idea for the album in Ron’s head, and no doubt helped Hermione with a lot of the work.

She sits down on the bed. “Go on. Open it.”

Harry sits on the other side of the present, untying the bow and pulling the top off.

Inside is another album, identical to the first.

“I managed to wrangle a really good deal on the second one,” she says, smiling.

He opens the album, but inside there is nothing but creamy, empty pages. “It’s blank.”

She nods. “That other album is about where you come from, you know? This one is for where you’re going. So you can remember not to always look back.”

Harry stares down at the blank pages, imagining all the things he might fill it with someday, feeling a curious tightness building in his chest.

“Here,” she says, handing him an envelope. “Just to help you get started.”

It’s a collection of photographs from their trip to the beach, all of them static and unmoving and probably taken by Mrs. Granger. One of him and Ron splashing in the water, one of Hermione sitting between Harry and Ron with a wide smile on her face. One of Ginny and her dad talking with their heads lowered together.

Thank you doesn’t feel adequate. Nothing feels adequate.

“Harry?”

Carefully tucking the photographs away inside the album, he sets it to the side. He turns back to Ginny, taking her hands so he’s facing her. “I…”

There’s so many things he wants to say in that moment. That he wants to fill this entire album with pictures of her. The trips and birthdays and stupid everyday stuff they’re going to do. Because sometimes when he looks forward, the only thing he sees is her.

Giving up on the right words, he leans in and kisses her, trusting her to know what he means.

“Thank you,” he says.

She nods, fingers squeezing around his. “Any chance you’d mind if I snuck over to Grimmauld tonight after everyone goes to sleep?”

“This,” he confesses, pulling her into a hug, “is my favorite birthday yet.”

* * *

Hermione flits around the sitting room of Grimmauld Place, applications and pamphlets and pro-con lists spread out around her. She has her hair twisted back and held in place with her wand, frizzy bits of escaping hair haloing her face.

It’s only been a half-hour since she swept in with her NEWT results clutched in one hand and Ron trailing after her with an amused sort of affection on his face.

Harry has been so distracted by the whirlwind that is Hermione trying to decide her future that it takes him a while to notice that Ron is just as quiet as he is, neither of them saying anything about plans or apprenticeships.

“What about you?” Harry asks him. “You got your results?”

Ron shrugs. “Got what I needed. You?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, feeling his stomach twist. He can’t really put it off anymore, telling Ron that he has no intention of following through with their long-held plan to train as Aurors together.

Hermione glares at them. “Honestly. Are you two really going to just sit there?”

Ron shrugs. “What do we have to decide? We’ve known for ages.” He looks at Harry. “Haven’t we?”

“You still want that?” Harry says.

Ron shrugs again. “Sure. It’s what we said we’d do, innit?”

Harry blows out a breath. What is he going to do, let Ron get all the way to the first day of Auror training before telling him?

Harry’s stomach roils unpleasantly. “There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to tell you two.”

Hermione stops pacing, even going so far as to put down her pro-con list. She glances at Ron, like this is something they’ve been waiting for.

“The Ministry sent me a blanket offer a while back.”

Hermione plops down with a thump. “They did.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, rubbing at the back of his head. “An apprenticeship in any department I want.”

He tries not to let the embarrassment and anger rise up in him again, even as the unfairness of the situation is laid bare once again. Why should Harry and not Ron and Hermione get this special offer? It’s the bloody Order of Merlin all over again.

“Well then,” Ron says. “Guess that saves you messing about with applications. Now we’ll just have to see if they’re willing to accept me.”

Harry shifts in his seat. “I didn’t…. I mean…” He blows out a breath. “I didn’t take a position with the Aurors.”

“What?” Hermione says, voice almost shrill.

He forces himself to sit up taller. “I’ve decided I don’t want to be an Auror.”

Harry warily turns to Ron. He seems frozen for a moment, and Harry braces himself for the wrath of his best mate.

_How could you?_

Harry’s fingers dig into the arm of his chair.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Ron bursts out, collapsing back in his seat.

This is pretty much the last thing Harry expects. “You’re not mad?”

Ron frowns. “Well, yes, you should have told me, you wanker. But honestly? I’m enjoying helping George out with the shop. I’m good at it. And really, I’ve had enough almost dying for a lifetime.”

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” Harry wants to know.

“What was there to say?”

Harry stares at him in shock. “You would have still just done it? Joined Auror training with me?”

“Well, sure,” Ron says like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You’re my best mate, aren’t you?”

Harry shakes his head. He doubts he will ever fully understand what he did to deserve a mate like Ron.

“Of course,” Ron says, his brow furrowing as something seems to occur to him. “This means I took the bloody NEWTs for nothing.”

Harry laughs, his entire body feeling light and giddy from relief. Ron doesn’t hate him. 

“You laugh now,” Ron says, wagging a stern finger at him. “I figure you owe me free pints for the rest of my bloody life!”

Harry nods. “Deal.”

“Yeah?” Ron says, eyebrows lifting. He shrugs. “Not a total loss then, I suppose.”

“Wait,” Hermione says. “You didn’t say which department you did pick. Or are you not taking any offers at all? I mean, what are you going to do with yourself? I know you haven’t been on the best terms with the Ministry, but you can’t just—”

“Hermione,” Harry says, cutting her off. “I did take a position.”

“You did?”

“Where?” Ron asks, looking more mildly interested than anything.

There’s no avoiding it he supposes. “Department of Mysteries.”

It’s almost exactly how he imagined it, Ron slack-jawed and Hermione looking at him like he needs an intervention.

“I have my reasons,” Harry says before Hermione can manage to get a word in edgewise. “And it’s just…it’s what I want.”

Ron’s mouth shuts with a snap. “Well then. Okay.” He gives Hermione a pointed look. “Right?”

Hermione seems to struggle for a moment. “Right,” she agrees rather weakly.

Ron reaches over and slaps a hand to Harry’s leg. “Just promise me, mate, if you see a bloody bunch of brains floating about, you run the other way.”

Harry laughs. “I promise.”

* * *

“Let’s see you do this!” Ron shouts, flinging the Quaffle back over his shoulder towards the lowest hoop.

Fortunately for Harry, the Quaffle misses by near a mile, meaning he won’t have to replicate the shot himself.

“Still waiting to see you do it,” Harry says.

Ron calls him something impressively foul.

Harry laughs, diving on his broom to scoop the Quaffle back up off the ground, barely slowing down as his fingers brush against the grass.

They’ve been out here most of the morning together, messing about on their brooms, Harry letting Ron have a turn on his Firebolt. Now they are immersed in a rather brutal contest after Harry taught Ron the rules of Muggle HORSE, only with Quaffles instead of basketballs.

They each try more and more ridiculous throws, hanging upside down off their brooms, throwing in the middle of a dive, kicking it through the hoops from the ground.

Harry thinks maybe they are both becoming increasingly aware that they won’t see each other as much working in two different places. Through things have been different for a while now, since Australia, since Ron and Hermione. Since him and Ginny.

Still, they seem to have come to some unspoken agreement to spend as much time together as they can. Harry meets Ron at the pub after he finishes a shift in Diagon Alley. Ron goes along to watch Teddy with him sometimes. They have dinner together most nights still, when Ron and Hermione aren’t doing some sort of date.

It’s a nice feeling to know that no matter how much some things change, this won’t.

Ron makes a nearly impossible shot using only his head, crowing with delight. “Let’s see you do that one, Harry!”

Harry grins, darting off to recover the Quaffle.

After another hour and not a few silly bruises, the two of them walk back up to the house. They escaped earlier mostly to avoid Molly in ‘organizing for a party’ mode. They’d both helped complete a few designated chores and then made themselves scarce. It’s late enough now though that guests for Ginny’s birthday party were likely to be arriving.

“I see that twat Burke has arrived,” Ron mutters as they enter the garden.

Sure enough, when Harry looks, Ginny and Burke are on the porch.

It’s not that Harry has particularly friendly feelings towards Burke, or that he’s forgotten the shocking revelation that he’d used Crucio on Ginny, but Harry is nowhere near as hostile towards Burke as Ron. Not that he blames him entirely.

“He is her best mate, isn’t he?” Harry says.

Ron watches them, his eyes narrowed. Ginny and Burke are sitting on the rocking bench, heads lowered towards each other as they are clearly deep in conversation about something. Or rather Ginny seems to be speaking intently, her hands gesturing as Burke just frowns. Then Ginny says something that makes him roll his eyes, his lips twitching in a smile as he reaches out and tugs on her braid like she’s a little girl.

Predictably, she bats his hand away impatiently, the two of them laughing.

“I’m just saying he’d better not get any ideas,” Ron says darkly.

Harry saves himself from having to respond to that by taking Ron’s broom and returning them to the shed.

Ron is on the porch with Ginny and Burke by the time he gets back.

Burke looks up at him, flinging an arm across the back of the bench. “Ah, the whole gang is here, I see. Only, no Granger?” he asks, looking around with clear exaggeration. He slides Ron a look. “You haven’t had a falling out, have you?”

Ginny kicks Tobias in the leg, managing to get the right one this time. “Hermione will be here soon. And you will play nice.”

“Yes, yes,” he says, dismissively. “No need for threats of _more_ physical violence.”

Ron’s mood is salvaged when Hermione arrives not much later. The three of them sit down with George in the garden, sipping on cold pumpkin juice. Arthur emerges from his workshop not much later, and Harry looks up just in time to see Ginny give Burke a push towards her father. 

Burke glares at her, but then seems to square his shoulders, striding up to Arthur. They speak a moment until Arthur nods, gesturing toward the house, the two of them disappearing inside.

Ginny crosses over to join them in the garden, sitting down next to George.

“Burke finally asking Dad’s permission to court you, Gin-Gin?” he asks.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “I’d as soon date a garden gnome.”

George snorts. “If you did that, Mum and Dad would start wondering about you even more than they already do.”

Ginny’s expression is dangerous. “Wonder what, exactly?”

George doesn’t seem to possess any sense of self-preservation though, blissfully pressing on. “If you’re gonna end up marrying your broom.”

Next to Harry, Ron snickers.

“Well,” Ginny says, voice light in a way that spells doom for them all. “What need does a witch have of a boy when she has a broom and two good hands?”

There’s a particular gleam in her eye that makes Harry choke on his drink.

George recoils. “Ginevra!”

“What?” Ron asks as he helpfully whacks Harry on the back. “She just means she likes Quidditch better, doesn’t she?”

Ginny bursts into laughter, her arms hugging around her middle.

“Trust me, Ron,” Harry says in an undertone. “You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, no,” Ginny says, still laughing. “I’d love to hear you explain it, Harry.”

He glares at her, but she just smiles back.

“Dinner!” Molly calls.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Harry says.

Most of the meal passes without further incident, Ginny sitting between her father and a now much less surly-looking Burke.

After they have all been served cake, Ginny gets to her feet. “You lot are, as always, just the right amount of trouble a girl could want in her life. I’m thankful you could all be here to celebrate with me.”

“You aren’t going to start crying on us, are you?” Ron says.

Her eyes narrow. “It anyone is going to be crying, it won’t be me.”

“Ginny,” Molly says primly, glancing at Burke as if he may be scandalized by the unladylike threat.

“Anyway,” Ginny says. “Since I have you all here, there’s something I’d like to share with you.”

“Haven’t you shared enough today?” George complains.

Ginny pokes her tongue out at him, even as Bill leans over to ask what he’s missed.

“I have decided that I am not going to take the spot with the Harpies,” Ginny announces.

There’s a beat of silence, and then the table explodes with sound, all of her brothers jumping in at once to voice their opinion on her decision. Harry glances over at Burke to find him sitting back, arms crossed over his chest. He looks more annoyed than surprised.

Predictably, Ginny remains calm in the whirlwind of everyone’s emotions.

“Bloody hell, Ginny!” Ron says. “Everyone knows Gwenog Jones is practically handing you a starting spot!”

“And if I don’t particularly want to be _handed_ anything?” she asks.

“Is _that_ what this is about? Why would you make this harder for yourself?”

She shrugs. “Maybe I like things that are difficult.”

In desperation, Ron turns to Burke. “You’re her best mate. Talk some sense into her.”

Ginny laughs. “He can’t even name all of the balls used in Quidditch.”

Tobias shrugs, looking supremely bored by the drama. “She’s not wrong.”

“I give up,” Ron says, throwing his hands in the air. “Harry, tell her she’s crazy. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

Everyone turns to look at him, including Ginny who watches him with one eyebrow raised as if curious to hear what he’s going to say.

“I’m, uh, sure Ginny knows what she’s doing,” he says.

Ginny grins at him, even as Ron groans in betrayal.

“If you’re not signing with the Harpies, what are going to do?” Bill asks.

Ginny takes a careful breath, and Harry can tell she is far more nervous about this part. He finds himself leaning forward in anticipation, Ginny never having said for certain what she was thinking. He asked her once, if she’d narrowed down her choices, but she only made a joke about the Cannons. He’d been rather easily distracted by other things not soon after, it being one of the few times they’d found alone the last few weeks. Besides which, pestering people, in his experience, is rarely a great way to keep the peace.

“Well,” she says. “I spent a lot of time considering my options.”

“And?” George demands impatiently, flapping his hand for her to get on with it.

“ _And_ ,” Ginny says, “I’ve decided I’m going to try for a spot with the Ballycastle Bats.”

That stuns them into silence again, Harry feeling a sharp jab of shock.

“The Ballycastle Bats?” Ron shouts in disbelief.

Everything descends into total chaos again, only Harry and Burke sitting quietly at the table.

* * *

Ginny stalks out of the kitchen, her mum still slamming pots behind her. Approaching Tobias, she can only hope her face isn’t as pink with anger as if feels.

“Oh, look at the time,” Ginny says, forcing her voice artificially light. “We’re going to be late meeting Hannah and everyone! Bye!”

“Your mum have something to say about your career plans?” Tobias guesses, his voice low. As if her brothers’ collective disbelief and skepticism isn’t enough to deal with.

“You could say that,” she says, grabbing Tobias’s arm and escaping out the front door before any of her brothers can waylay her again with their, frankly, unwelcome criticisms. After the ‘conversation’ she just endured with her mother, she won’t be held accountable for her actions if one more person pisses her off.

Ron, Harry, and Hermione are out on the porch, apparently no more keen to hear the continuing fallout from her—how did her mum put it?— _outlandish and selfish plans_.

“You lot coming to the pub?” she asks.

“We’re right behind you,” Hermione answers.

She glances over at Harry, but he’s looking at Ron.

“Well that was exciting,” Tobias says with distaste once they’re out on the path. “You could have just tried explaining it to them.”

Ginny lets out a sound of disgust. “It wouldn’t have mattered. They just need a chance to yell and be indignant. By tomorrow it will be all forgotten. It’s the way Weasleys work.”

Though perhaps not her mum. But she refuses to think on that anymore.

“I need to stop coming over here,” Tobias grouses as if he doesn’t love every moment of their drama.

She tries not to let it scuttle her mood. It’s her birthday. And everything feels more real now that’s she actually told her family. Ballycastle is actively looking for a reserve Chaser this year. This year of all years. One of the greatest offensive sides ever put together. It’s like a long unspoken dream coming to fruition. She just has to catch their attention at the open trials. Prove how good she could be if she were given the chance.

She’s doing it. She is going for it.

If her family can’t understand that… Well. She’ll have to find a way to live with that.

She enters the Leaky Cauldron to the loud greetings of her friends.

“The birthday girl!”

Ginny plasters a smile on her face and goes to say hello to her friends. They eventually make it all the way to the bar.

“Hey, Hannah,” Tobias says in a tone Ginny knows is meant to be cool and casual.

“Hi,” Hannah says, giving him a shy smile.

Ginny just waits, looking between the two of them.

“Uh,” Tobias says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Ginny told me about your new job. Are you enjoying it?”

“Yeah,” Hannah says. “I think it’s a good fit.”

“Good,” he says, hand tapping on the bar. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Would you like something to drink?” Hannah offers.

“Nah. Not right now.” He steps back away, gesturing towards the people gathered. “I’m gonna go…say hi to some people. I’ll see you around.”

She nods.

Ginny supposes it’s possible that could have been _more_ awkward, though she’s not certain how.

Hannah sighs, looking down at the bar top. Ginny doesn’t know the particulars, though from various off-hand comments from Tobias, she can gather he tried to initiate something with Hannah that she wasn’t interested in reciprocating. Much to his embarrassment.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Ginny says.

Hannah nods. “Neither did he.”

Ginny reaches out and squeezes her hand. “Good.” She should have known Tobias would never act like Michael or bloody Kieran.

“Ginny!”

She turns, seeing Demelza striding across the room. “You made it,” Ginny says, smiling at her.

“Yes, well, the benefits of finally being bloody seventeen. I can now travel about as I like.”

“Hey, Martin,” Ginny says, noticing the Slytherin Keeper just a few steps behind. She might assume this means that their on again off again relationships is once again a go, but it’s honestly hard to tell from moment to moment with these two.

They chat Quidditch for a while, joined soon after by Jimmy and Ritchie. Out of the corner of Ginny’s eye, she sees Harry arrive with Ron and Hermione, immediately getting swept up with Neville and Seamus and Dean.

“That team of yours doesn’t stand a chance this year,” Demelza says, sliding Martin a sly look.

Ginny laughs. “I think Reiko will have something to say about that.”

Martin lifts his glass, tapping it against hers in agreement. “You realize she’s going to be writing you weekly letters, right?”

“I think I’ll be lucky if they aren’t daily.”

“No fair,” Demelza says, jabbing a finger at her. “You’ve graduated. Get your fingers out of the pie!”

The pub fills more and more as the hour gets later, Ginny amazed to see how many people have shown up. She even saw Antonia walk in a while ago, though she hasn’t found a moment to go say hello yet. She knows better than to expect Tilly. Tobias is hanging about with Rosier and Vaisey.

She’s talking to Neville when she glances around just in time to see Harry pulling his coat on and heading for the back exit.

“Oh, is Harry leaving already?” she asks. “I haven’t got a chance to thank him for coming.”

Neville looks over at Harry as he slips out the back door. “Apparently they ran into some press on the way in. Didn’t seem to have left Harry in the best of moods.”

“Oh,” Ginny says. “Yeah. I can’t imagine it would.”

Neville shakes his head. “I don’t understand how they can get away with saying such ridiculous stuff about him. Or bothering him all the time.”

“Fortunately most people are smart enough to know it’s rubbish,” she says, mind no longer really on their conversation. “Oh, look. Antonia is here. I’m going to go say hello.” She squeezes Neville’s arm and then moves through the pub.

Instead of joining Antonia at one of the back tables, Ginny ducks out after Harry.

They’re supposed to meet up at Grimmauld sometime tonight so he can give her her present. This is earlier than expected, but it’s probably smart to do it while Ron and Hermione are still occupied, neither of them looking like they were going to move for a while.

He’s nearly at the end of the alley by the time she gets outside.

“Harry,” she calls out after him.

He stops, but doesn’t immediately turn, and she wonders if she’s imagining the way his shoulders stiffen.

She looks around as she crosses over to him, but fortunately there isn’t anyone else back here. “Are you alright? I heard about the reporter.”

“What?” he says, looking like he’s already forgotten about that. “No. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t sound particularly fine. Not to mention that he seems to be having a hard time looking her in the eye. It’s setting her on edge.

“What is it?” she asks, touching his arm.

“Nothing,” he says, very nearly brusque.

She lets her hand fall from his arm. 

He blows out a breath. “Just a headache.”

He’s lying. Of that, she is absolutely certain.

“Sure,” she says, her own voice flat. “Fine.”

He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stand there looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

“Well,” she says, cursing herself for the ridiculous pressure building behind her eyes. It makes her voice a bit sharper than she intends. “If you ever decide you actually want to tell me what’s going on, I suppose you know where to find me.”

She turns on her heel and starts back towards the pub.

“Ballycastle?” he bursts out like he’s been holding it back for ages.

Ginny stops, turning back to look at him. “Yes,” she says.

He looks like he doesn’t even know what to say, his hands gesturing broadly as he lets out a huff of disbelief.

“I told you I wasn’t going to take the Harpies spot.”

“Yes, but you didn’t tell me it was going to be bloody _Ballycastle_!” he very nearly shouts.

She stiffens, not at all prepared for this reaction from him of all people. “Meaning I need your _permission_?” she asks, voice going quiet.

“What? No. Of course not.” He drags a hand through his hair in frustration. “That’s not what I mean, and you damn well know it.”

She’s not feeling particularly charitable at the moment. “Do I?”

He spins away, taking a truncated step as if stopping himself from pacing. “You never even mentioned Ballycastle!”

She crosses her arms over her chest, trying and failing to hang on to her temper. “Oh, you mean like how you talked to me before you decided to take the apprenticeship in the Department of Mysteries?”

He rounds on her, finger jabbing in the air. “That’s different.”

“Why? Because it’s _you_?”

He throws his hands up. “Because it’s not out of the bloody country!”

“Is that what this is about?”

“I knew you weren’t going to Holyhead, but I never considered you wouldn’t be in England!”

Ginny feels that hit squarely, but is far too riled up to admit it, her hold on her temper fraying completely. “Yes, because this isn’t fighting a dark wizard or buggering off to find myself. This is just me trying to build a _career_. To follow my bloody dream!”

Harry physically reels back from her, looking like she might as well have taken a swipe at him. “ _Excuse_ me?”

She sighs, closing her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he says with a humorless laugh. “I suppose I do.”

They warily regard each other, the air somehow feeling like a thick fog between them.

She blows out a breath, trying to pull herself back from the edge. “Harry—” she starts to say, but the back door of the pub slams open, a couple spilling out into the alleyway.

Ginny automatically ducks out of sight, stepping into the shadows cast by the corner of the building.

Harry doesn’t budge, still standing stubbornly in the middle of the alley. “Let me guess,” he says, his voice bitter. “This isn’t the time or place for this conversation.”

Ginny clenches her jaw. “No. It isn’t,” she bites out. Can’t he see that?

“How very bloody convenient,” Harry says, and then he’s turning and walking away from her.

She can’t very well call out after him without drawing attention, but she’s still shocked when she hears the pop of his Apparition a moment later. She stands there, swelling with rage and hurt that he just bloody _left_.

It takes her a while to even process it, and then she’s gathering up the tattered remains of her control and stalking back towards the pub. She passes Lisa Turpin and her girlfriend with barely a nod of acknowledgement.

Of course, the first person she sees inside is Ron.

“I still think you’re barmy,” he gleefully informs her, having no clue, really, how close she is to hexing someone into oblivion.

For a moment she sees red, but forces herself to turn and walk away, heading for the booth she saw Antonia in earlier. Her step only slows slightly when she realizes Theodora is there as well, looking coiffed and elegant as always. She’s only seen the former Mistress once since their rather icy exchange last summer about Tilly’s betrothal options--and that had been at Tilly and Bassenthwaite’s wedding back in January.

Another barbed exchange is probably the last thing Ginny needs right now, but she refuses to be derailed.

“Excellent work not pulling your wand,” Antonia says as Ginny slides into a seat next to her.

Ginny closes her eyes, blowing out a breath. “Sometimes having a temper is a real bloody pain in the arse.”

Theodora lets out a soft huff of amusement, but otherwise keeps her counsel to herself.

“Your great cross to bear,” Antonia says with a smile.

“Lovely.”

“Happy birthday,” Antonia says, lifting her glass.

With great effort, Ginny tries to focus on the niceties. “I really appreciate you coming.” She glances at Theodora, including her in the statement, even if she still isn’t entirely sure why she’s here.

“Of course,” Theodora says, nodding to her.

They leave her be, talking quietly while Ginny nurses a drink brought over by a smiling Hannah. Ginny tries to focus on the conversation, but finds it difficult, the scene in the alleyway playing over and over again in her head. Her entire body feels shaky, almost as if she’s cold or furious, but it doesn’t really feel like either of those.

“Okay,” Antonia says. “Out with it.”

“What?” Ginny says, looking up at her.

“Before you explode.”

Ginny shakes her head, sucking in a careful breath. It’s possible a dispassionate outside opinion is just what she needs. “I was offered a position with the Harpies.”

“Were you,” Antonia says. “I’d heard a rumor about that here or there.”

“I turned it down.”

Antonia’s eyebrows lift, almost as if in surprise, but more like she’s pleased about something. “Did you really?”

Ginny turns her head slightly, glaring over at Ron. “Apparently that makes me barmy.”

“Well that would depend on why you did it, I suppose.”

“I don’t—” Ginny blows out a frustrated breath. “I don’t want to just _play_ Quidditch. I want to be the absolute best Chaser I can be.”

“Which means?”

It all seems to pour out of her then, all the words and plans and reasonings she’s been holding back for months on end. “Which means I don’t want to go to the Harpies. I want to train with Fianna Moran. I want to learn from one of the best Chasers ever to play, and Ballycastle is actively looking for a reserve Chaser this year, and Moran is probably going to retire soon and this is it. This is my chance.”

Antonia looks thoughtful. “Sounds riskier than the Harpies option.”

“It is,” Ginny says, knowing there are those who would say Ballycastle is well out of her reach—an eighteen-year-old with no professional experience. “But the payoff is so much bigger.”

“And if the risk doesn’t play out?” Theodora asks, joining in for the first time.

Ginny slides her a wary look, still never feeling perfectly steady on her feet around the older Mistress, no matter how ridiculous that is. “I have a dozen contingency and backup plans.”

Theodora nods as if that is a given. “And how many lead you back to Ballycastle?”

“The first five,” Ginny admits.

“Seems rather telling,” Antonia says, sharing a smile with Theodora.

But Ginny has never doubted her plans. “People…” She winces, breaking off. “My family’s not exactly happy with my decision.”

She knows what it will mean, being in a different country, one separated from home by a sea large enough to dampen magic and make travel onerous. Living in Ireland won’t be like being in Hogwarts or London where she can just apparate home on a whim. There won’t be quick evening meals or dropping by just to visit.

She _knows_ this.

_I never considered you wouldn’t be in England!_

Her stomach churns unpleasantly. “Am I being selfish?”

“If it’s selfish to put some things ahead of others, then all ambitions are inherently selfish,” Theodora says, not like that’s a bad thing but just how it _is_.

Ginny lets out a humorless laugh. “You know what my mother’s response was? You know, after she tried to forbid it? She wanted to know why I couldn’t just be content with what I had. Why I was being greedy. She asked me what she did to deserve me doing this to her. Like it’s about _her_. Like I’m running away and abandoning my entire family to _punish_ her or something.”

Antonia makes a soft sound like a hum. “Let me ask you this—if it was one of your brothers who was doing this, would the reaction have been the same?”

Ginny sits back, thinking about that. Charlie running off to Romania to study dragons, Bill being in Egypt for _years_. Mum had been sad, but no one told them they were crazy. No one told them they were trying for something out of their reach. None of them were told to just be content with what they already have.

They were being bold and take-charge and living their dreams.

“It wouldn’t have,” Theodora says. “And you know it.”

Ginny nods, only feeling more miserable. 

Theodora’s fingers play with the rim of her wine glass, spinning it gently. “They ask us to slice pieces of ourselves off, over and over again until there is nothing left but their vision of us. A woman who wants to remain whole is a monster. They call it selfish.”

Ginny shakes her head. “They didn’t—”

“That’s the thing though, isn’t it? They don’t even have to ask it of us. We’re too busy doing it to ourselves.” She looks up at Ginny, making her feel caught by her gaze. “How much of yourself are you willing to carve away?”

Ginny feels something breathless and painful swelling in her chest, Theodora’s words landing deep down in her.

Antonia leans towards her. “Do you know why I started watching you? What it was that really caught my attention?”

“No,” Ginny says, the reasoning still unclear to her after all this time.

“It was just the glimpse I caught, sometimes. Of what you could be, if you could just be kept from disappearing entirely.”

Ginny closes her eyes, remembering far too well that feeling from those early years at Hogwarts—sinking into the stones, disappearing into the tapestries, smiling with an emotion she never really felt. The people who asked for and expected that of her. To be what they wanted her to be.

How much of herself is she willing to carve away to be the perfect daughter?

The perfect girlfriend?

The answer comes too quickly, far too easily, her actions cast in painful high relief.

_You never even mentioned Ballycastle!_

“Oh bollocks,” she says, letting her head fall into her hands.

“What?” Antonia asks.

Ginny shakes her head. “Oh, just realizing how badly I screwed something up.”

“Turning down Holyhead?”

“No.” That was the right decision. She’s only more certain of that now.

But it matters how you go about it.

She pushes to her feet.

“And where are you going?” Theodora asks.

Ginny squares her shoulders. “When you know what you’ve done wrong, there’s nothing to be done but fix it.”

Antonia smiles. “Good luck.”

Glancing around, Ginny locates Tobias before crossing over to speak to him.

* * *

Harry’s temper keeps him occupied all the way back to Grimmauld, up the stairs into his room. He slams the door behind him, but it does nothing to relieve him of his anger. He paces the length of his room back and forth, blood pounding in his ears. He can’t even form a coherent thought.

Eventually he stops, staring unseeing at the curtained window. His skin feels itchy all over.

Ballycastle. Fuck.

He doesn’t want her to be that far away. He wants her _here_. Why can’t she get that?

Not that he managed to actually _say_ any of that.

The fact is he felt blindsided, sitting there at the Burrow like a fool, knowing perfectly well that Ginny would have planned this weeks if not months ago. Sat there like an idiot while her brothers yelled and Burke lounged there like he couldn’t care less. Or like he already knew.

Cursing to himself, Harry drags his hand through his hair.

That is not what this is about, he reminds himself. Who knew. Who didn’t. She doesn’t have to tell him everything all the time. He knows he doesn’t really have the right to ask that. Does he? 

This is about the fact that he doesn’t want her to be far away.

He doesn’t want to _lose_ her.

The shocked, hurt expression on her face the moment before he turned and walked away flashes through his mind. He tries to stay angry, but something seems to crack open, thinking about her still standing out there.

Christ, what has he done?

And suddenly it isn’t anger thundering away in his head, but sheer panic.

He just left her there without a word. Should he go back? Would that only piss her off more?

He’s halfway back down the stairs before a different possibility starts screaming in his head.

What does this mean? Is this a fight? Or something more? Did they just…break up?

A knock on the front door pulls him out of his stupor. He nearly trips down the last few steps, crossing the entryway and wrenching the door open.

Ginny is standing on the stoop. He’s so relieved that she’s here that he doesn’t even care if she’s just going to yell at him more.

But she doesn’t yell, instead she says, “I should have told you.”

The panic seems to leak away like a balloon with a puncture, everything just softening and leaving him feeling rubbery. “What?”

“I should have told you. First. Before everyone else.”

Harry takes a careful breath, the riot of emotions in his head disorienting. That isn’t what this is about, remember? _Don’t ask questions._ “I don’t… I don’t need to be first. I mean, I get that I’m just—”

Her expression shifts, eyes blazing as she steps closer to him. “Just _what_?” Her voice is quiet but seems layered with dangerous things.

Harry’s hand tightens on the door frame, swallowing back all the words that quickly come to mind. Just your secret. Just someone you like to snog. Just someone who should be thankful for what they can get. Just a waste of space. Just unimportant.

Just Harry.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything, Harry,” she says, voice fierce. “Not ever. And certainly not to me." She shakes her head, looking perilously close to tears now. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you were.”

Something expands painfully in his chest, Harry feeling frozen to the spot.

As the silence stretches long, Ginny seems to deflate, her chin ducking towards her chest. She turns, but rather than walking away, she sits down on the top step, her knees hugged into her chest. Still there. Just waiting for him.

With great effort, he manages to loosen his grip on the door, letting out a long shaky breath before closing it behind him. He sees her shoulders flinch, like maybe he’s gone inside. Left yet again. Everything inside of him still seems to be vibrating unpleasantly.

He lowers himself onto the top step next to her. Turning his head, he studies her profile. She looks as miserable as he feels and it’s absolutely no consolation at all. “I’m sorry I just left.”

She shakes her head. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you find out like that.”

“Why didn’t you? Tell me?” he forces himself to ask, even though part of him is still screaming that he shouldn’t.

Ginny doesn’t immediately answer, the two of them just silently staring out over the park.

“I’ve been sitting here asking myself that,” she eventually says. “Honestly I wonder if part of it is that I’m just not used to it. Having someone. Someone to share all of this with,” she says, gesturing at her head.

Harry feels as if a fist is closing over his heart. _Someone to share all of this with._

She blows out a breath, looking down at her toes. “It’s not an excuse, I know.”

“I’m not used to it either,” he forces himself to admit.

Ginny’s teeth nibble at her lower lip, something he’s noticing she does when she’s working something through or when she’s uncertain. “Maybe we could…work on that?” She sounds like she expects him to say no.

He closes his eyes as something like relief swamps his chest. “Yeah,” he says, shifting so his leg is pressing lightly against hers.

Only then does she look up at him. “What I should have told you is that I’ve wanted Ballycastle since I was thirteen. I’ve never told anyone that, but I’ve wanted it. Since the day we watched the World Cup. Do you remember?”

“Of course,” he says. He’d barely noticed her back then, but he can still remember the ecstatic joy of the match. Only now can he admit she’d been a part of that happiness, the two of them actually talking after the match as they recounted the best parts.

She crosses her arms over her chest, rubbing at her upper arms as if to stave off a chill despite the summer warmth. “The chances that it would ever happen were so small. But I still couldn’t help but…”

“Hope?”

She nods. “Yeah. Hope. And then the spring recruiting reports came out.”

“And Ballycastle is looking for reserve Chasers,” he says.

“I couldn’t believe it. I mean, there were still so many reasons it might not happen. But I…”

“Were you scared of jinxing it or something?” he asks, still trying to understand, trying to see how they are supposed to share these things, but she still didn’t say anything.

_You’re not just anything, Harry._

She’s still for a long time, and Harry tries to give her the time, to not just let anxiety build and build in his chest.

She finally meets his gaze, expression sober and eyes fiercely determined. “I want Ballycastle, Harry. More than anything.” She sucks in a breath, her hands tightening into fists. “But maybe not more than this.”

It takes him a moment to realize what she means by _this_.

“I’m ambitious,” she pushes on, like she can’t afford to pause. “And I can be rather…relentless. It’s who I am. How I am. And I know there is nothing wrong with wanting things for myself. I _know_ that.”

He thinks for something she supposedly knows, she sounds a lot like she’s trying to convince herself. Only he remembers every one of her brothers telling her she was barmy, all of them shouting her down while she sat quietly and took it. How not a single one of them seemed to have supported her.

Harry included.

She tugs at the end of her braid. “But there is still this part of me that would give it all up if you asked me to.”

He blinks, looking at her in surprise. “Ginny,” he says.

She isn’t looking at him, staring down at the steps. “I just…I can’t do that. I can’t be that girl who gives everything up. So maybe I really didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to give you the chance to ask me to choose.”

Is that what he would have done?

He doesn’t want her to be in Ireland. He wants her with him, wants her near. But how many times has he put her on hold while he had something else to do? Something important? Is he really going to turn around and tell her that she should pick him over her dream?

God, part of him wants to.

“Harry?”

He licks his lips. “If you want Ballycastle,” he says, “then of course you should go for it.”

She’s so still, like she’s scared to move and have everything fall down around her. “And you?”

“We’ll make it work somehow. I mean, if that’s what you want…”

“Yes,” she says, turning towards him, her knees pressing against his as she grabs his hands. “ _Of course_ that’s what I want.”

He tightens his hands around hers. “I don’t think I was ever asking you not to go.” What right did he have to do that anyway? “I was just saying…” He breaks off, shaking his head.

“Have the decency to not blindside you?”

“Yeah. I guess,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

He shakes his head. “We’ll figure it out.”

She leans into him, and he wraps his arm around her back. “You know the barmiest thing about all of this?” she mumbles into his shoulder.

“No.”

“If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I’d be brave enough to try.” She wraps her arm across his stomach. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

Except he’s pretty sure he’s never met anyone more capable than her. She’s done so much, most of it while he wasn’t even here. “We both know that’s not true.”

She stiffens, eventually looking up at him. “I don’t _want_ to do it without you.”

He pulls her into his chest. They stay like that, as if they are somehow trying to let it all settle again, even as the fight seems to linger just out of sight, like a thing that can’t be undone.

He’s not sure how long they’ve been there like that when Ginny lifts her head, looking back over his shoulder. It’s only then that Harry notices a Patronus standing on the stoop. It looks kind of like a wolf, only it’s too small and far too lanky. Ginny is listening intently to it, even though Harry can’t hear a word.

It disappears.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Fine. My absence has been noticed is all.”

Right. Her birthday party. All those people gathered to see her. “You should go.”

She turns back into him, her face tucked into his neck as her fingers tap on his arm, not showing any sign of actually leaving.

“Ginny?” he asks, touching the top of her head.

“We should go back together,” she rushes out.

He looks down at her in surprise, only able to see part of her face in profile. He knows what she’s offering. And he knows why too. Even though part of him wants to, they also already agreed to let her do this on her own terms. And they shouldn’t have to go back on that just because of some thoughtless thing he said when he was angry.

“I only openly date professional Quidditch players,” he says. “It’s a new rule. I was going to write a letter to _Witch Weekly_ about it tomorrow.”

Ginny’s breathing hitches. “And if I don’t—”

He cuts her off by pulling back and reaching for her face, refusing to hear her doubt herself. He kisses her, feeling her grab on to him in response.

“ _After_ Ballycastle, Ginny,” he says.

She isn’t asking much, room to make her dreams happen. Without him or his name getting in the way. He can do that for her.

She rests her forehead against his. “After Ballycastle,” she agrees.

“Good,” he says, shifting to his feet and holding his hands out to help her up. “Let’s get you back to your party.”

She nods, still looking quiet and thoughtful, but determined. She turns to leave and he tightens his grip on her fingers, pulling her to a stop.

She looks back at him.

“Happy birthday,” he says, squeezing her fingers.

She nods, giving him a strained smile. “Thanks.”

Neither of them move.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” she asks, sounding uncertain.

He nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

With one last look, she steps outside of the wards, and Harry lets her go.

They can do this, he reminds himself. Whatever ends up happening. They’re going to be okay.

Because the truth is, he’ll take whatever part of her he can get.


	5. Chapter 5

“What do you have in here?” Ron demands. “Rocks?”

Hermione indicates where the boxes should go with a jab of her finger. “You know perfectly well they’re books. And you aren’t even carrying them!”

Harry huffs under his breath as Ron glares at the box floating in front of him. “Hate to say it, but she’s got you there.”

“It’s the principle,” Ron says.

“The principle of complaining?” Harry asks.

“Yes, precisely.”

They grin at each other.

“At least this move we can use magic,” Harry points out.

Unlike the Grangers’ Muggle neighborhood, here at Grimmauld Place there is absolutely no one to make a good impression on. His Muggle neighbors don’t even know he exists as far as he can tell.

“Just five more!” Hermione says cheerily.

After many, many pro-con lists and a few near-meltdowns, Hermione finally settled on Magical Law for her apprenticeship. “I can still always change my mind. But honestly the law is really what needs to be fixed if anything is going to change.”

Having made the decision at last, she took Harry up on his offer of a room, though she insists on paying rent. She could just as easily travel from her parents’ house to the Ministry, but Mrs. Granger had finally sat Hermione down, telling her they didn’t expect her to stay with them forever. The magical world is her life, and they don’t expect her be in exile from it forever.

And so Ron and Harry are moving Hermione—and her many, many books—into Grimmauld Place. Ron’s moving into the flat over the shop with George—a decision primarily born of Ron’s interest in not incurring Molly’s wrath for daring to cohabitate with his girlfriend, but also wanting to be there for George. Not that Harry doesn’t suspect Ron will still be here more often than not.

Harry’s looking forward to having them around again. Even if it does mean losing his most reliable site for spending time with Ginny. She won’t be around herself for much longer anyway.

But he tries not to think about that.

“Can we start carrying these up?” Harry asks. He offered Hermione the master suite on the third floor. Personally, he chose to move into the most impersonal room he could find, a guest room of sorts. It lacks an attached bath, but it’s still able to feel more like his own.

“Oh, Harry,” she says like they haven’t had this conversation a dozen times already. “I couldn’t.”

“For the thousandth time, I don’t want it.”

“He’s too much of a lazy git to walk up that many flights,” Ron says.

Harry sends his box careening into Ron’s in retaliation.

“Careful!” Hermione admonishes as a mini-battle of dueling boxes erupts.

Hermione has finally agreed to take the master suite when Ginny appears on the stoop.

“Ginny,” Harry says, panicking a bit as he looks back at Ron and Hermione.

“I hope you don’t mind me just dropping by like this,” she says, not seeming particularly alarmed, “but I thought Hermione might want some help unpacking.”

“Oh,” he says, glancing at Hermione.

She brushes her hands off and turns to look at Ginny, something seeming to pass between the two girls.

“That would be nice,” Hermione eventually says a bit stiffly. “Thank you.”

“What can I do?” Ginny says, clearly unsurprised by her less than warm welcome.

“Well, I still haven’t definitively decided where to put the furniture. Maybe you could give me another opinion?”

“Sure,” Ginny says.

The two girls disappear up the stairs, Harry looking at Ron in askance. “What was that?”

Ron rolls his eyes. “Had a bit of a tiff, those two. You know how touchy Ginny can be.”

Harry frowns. “Not really. No.” She’s hardly the kind of person to pick a fight for no reason. “But I do know that Hermione can hold a grudge like nobody’s business.”

Ron winces, rubbing at his face as if remembering a particularly nasty flock of birds attacking his face. “Don’t remind me.”

Harry surveys the stacks of boxes, beginning to question insisting Hermione take a room on the third floor.

“Let’s face it,” Ron says. “Neither of those are girls to hack off.”

Harry nods in agreement. “Which is why we aren’t going to ask Kreacher to move these,” he says, knowing perfectly well that Ron’s been at least considering it.

Ron groans in complaint. “He could probably do it all with a single snap of his fingers!”

Recasting the featherweight charm on the boxes, Harry levitates the first stack in front of him and starts up the stairs.

“See who can carry the most up at once?” Ron calls out after him.

Harry laughs. “You’re on.”

Whatever was wrong between Ginny and Hermione seems to thaw as the morning passes, the two of them busy shifting furniture around on a small sketch of the room plan. Harry’s happy Ginny’s here, but it’s starting to make him a bit antsy, having her here but not being able to talk to her much. Considering he’s barely seen her since her birthday--since their spectacular fight that still makes his stomach twist when he thinks of it--that’s more annoying than usual. Not to mention she’s about to leave on her trip to see Smita in a few days.

All meaning he’s getting a bit desperate to get her on her own.

When Ron declares it’s lunchtime, Harry talks up a local Muggle takeaway place he’s discovered. One conveniently distant and popular enough to give him the time he needs.

“It can be crowded at lunch,” Harry says, “but it’s really worth the wait.”

Sure enough, when they deliver the last of the boxes to the hall, Ron tells Hermione, “Harry’s told me about this Muggle curry place. I’m going to run out and get us some.”

Predictably, Hermione looks alarmed, like the fact that he passed as a Muggle in Australia for months is outweighed by Ron’s ability to put his foot in it. “On your own?”

Ron rolls his eyes. “Harry trusts me to do it.”

Harry nods.

“I trust you too,” Hermione says immediately, clearly a giant lie. “I’d just like to walk with you. If you don’t mind.”

Ron smiles. “Sure,” he says, looping his arm around her waist and pressing a careless kiss to her temple. “You can keep me company if the line is long.”

Hermione looks at Ginny as if belatedly remembering that she’s here. “Would you like to come too?”

Ginny’s nose wrinkles with distaste. “And have to watch you two hang all over each other? Pass. But I definitely want curry in exchange for my labor.”

Rather than looking annoyed, Hermione just rolls her eyes.

“I can get the rest of this put in place while you’re gone,” Ginny says, gesturing around the room. “As in I’ll make Harry do it while I sit and watch.”

“Lovely,” Harry says dryly.

Ron lets out a bark of laughter, patting Harry on the arm. “Thanks, mate,” he says, dragging Hermione out the door.

And then it’s just the two of them. Alone. At last.

“I’m impressed,” Ginny says.

“Yeah?” he asks, his fingers itching to finally give her a proper greeting.

She nods. “That was very well executed.”

He shrugs. “I’m learning from the best, I suppose.”

“Flattery isn’t going to get you out of moving furniture,” she says. She gestures at the dresser. “Help me with this?”

It only takes a few minutes to get the last of the furniture into place, and only once is there nearly a disastrous collision between a bookshelf and a dresser.

“There,” Ginny says, stowing her wands and surveying their handiwork. “She’ll probably change her mind again, but whatever.”

“Doubtlessly,” he agrees.

She glances at him, only to look away, apparently engrossed in nudging a bookcase exactly right. That hard twist of dread is making itself known in Harry’s stomach again.

He touches her arm, stupidly relieved when she doesn’t pull away. Why would she do that? “Hey.”

“Yeah?” she asks, looking up at him.

“I didn’t get a chance… I still have your birthday present.”

“Oh,” she says, wincing a bit as she no doubt remembers why he never got around to giving it to her. They’d been too busy fighting. “You don’t have to…”

“Of course I do,” he says. “I spent long enough agonizing over it. The least you can do is open it and pretend you like it.”

She lets out a breath, smiling at him as her hand slips into his. “Right. Of course.” 

He tilts his head towards the stairs. “It’s in my room.”

“Is this another sneaky strategy, Potter?” she tries to tease.

“Come on,” he says, keeping hold of her hand as he leads her out into the hall.

Back downstairs, she follows him into his room off the first floor landing. He lets her go in first. It’s the first time she’s ever been in here. At least since he moved in. They probably cleaned in here back when it was Order headquarters.

She walks into the space, glancing around at the large four-poster bed, the small settee under the window with a low table, and the mirror-backed dresser. Other than his old school trunk against the other wall, there’s nothing else.

He walks over to the table, picking up the box wrapped in green paper with little brooms zooming around it.

“Here,” he says, holding it out to her, trying to ignore the thudding in his chest.

She takes it, fingering the total disaster of a bow with a small smile. It was the best he could manage after many attempts.

Sitting on the settee, she sets it on her lap, pulling off the paper and lifting the top off. She picks up the Muggle camera, her fingers fiddling with the rolls of film he bought as well.

“So you can take pictures on your trip,” he explains when she doesn’t say anything. “But also…I thought maybe you could help me. You know, fill out my new album.”

She still isn’t looking at him, her face tipped down towards the box, and he’s honestly starting to panic at this point at her lack of reaction.

“If you don’t like it, I can take it back—”

She finally lifts her face, and horrifyingly, she looks like she might cry. “No,” she says, tucking it into her chest, as if he might try to take it back. “I love it. It’s perfect.”

“Okay,” he says, still no sure why she’s looking like that if she really likes it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, carefully setting the camera back in the box, fingers brushing across it. “It’s silly.”

“I doubt it,” he says.

She fleetingly smiles. “I’m just glad to know that you still…want that. Even after I…” She looks helplessly up at him.

After she told him she’s going away. After she chose Ballycastle. The whole bloody sodding mess. Like maybe this has all been weighing on her just as much.

Taking the box from her and setting it on the table, he takes her hands in his. “Of course I do.”

She squeezes his fingers tight like she’s scared he’s going to back away, and that leaves him scrambling for the right thing to say, to make her understand somehow. To make all of this right again.

“Look,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about this. How I didn’t see you for that whole year we were on the run, and another in Australia. Months and months of not knowing…of not being sure there was any chance at all.”

She stiffens. “I _know_ ,” she says, only looking more miserable and guilty.

“No. I don’t mean…” He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to say that all that time away from you and I didn’t—none of it ever changed, you know, how I…feel. About you.” He winces, certain he’s making a mess of it.

Only Ginny isn’t looking miserable anymore, instead gazing back at him with a steady sort of intensity. “Harry,” she says, hand tightening around his.

“Besides, it’s not going to be like that again, is it? Ireland is close and we’re…well, we know, don’t we? This time?” And maybe he really needs her to confirm that for him too.

For a moment she is very still as she regards him. “Yes,” she says, voice steady and sure. “We do.” And then she’s surging forward and kissing him.

He has half a thought that he really hadn’t brought her to his room for this, but it all evaporates against the feel of her, the way she’s kissing him like he’s the most important thing in the world. It’s so much better than the awkward confusion and his stupid words.

He gathers her up against him, Ginny deepening the kiss far past a quick show of affection as she shifts onto his lap. His glasses press awkwardly into his cheek, but the insignificant detail doesn’t matter. The fight, her upcoming departure, the distance between them these last few days—all of it seems to evaporate in the warmth of her mouth on his, her hands framing his face, sliding into his hair.

Harry’s body feels at once loose and somehow heavy as they sink back into the cushions, his hands moving restlessly up and down her back. He has no idea how much time has passed when he vaguely registers the sound of a door downstairs slamming shut. He doesn’t immediately react though, Ginny making a low sound as his thumbs rub firm circles along her hip bones. 

“We’re back!” Ron shouts in the distance.

Harry wants nothing more than to ignore that, maybe just lock himself away in here with Ginny for the rest of, well, forever, really.

Ginny pulls back though, and Harry reluctantly loosens his grip on her. She seems to be just as reluctant to stop judging from the look on her face, the way she doesn’t let him go far.

He rests his forehead against hers, trying to rein himself back in. “Happy birthday,” he says, voice a bit hoarse.

She smiles, hands running along his shoulders. “Is this a new birthday tradition? You always trying to upstage me?”

He laughs, not exactly sure how he’s done that--if she means the present or the kiss, or somehow maybe his fumbling attempt at explaining himself. “Your fault for being born later.” 

Ginny rolls her eyes, giving him a playful poke in the side. Reaching for her wand, she makes quick work of ridding his glasses of the smudges borne of her rather enthusiastic attentions, straightening them on his nose.

“Where the bloody hell are you?” Ron calls out.

With a sigh, Ginny kisses Harry one last time—something soft and gentle that makes Harry feel like he’s the one who just got some sort of present—before she shifts up off of him, straightening her clothing. With a lingering look, she scoops up her present and slips out into the hall. 

“Hey,” he hears her say from the hall. “You’ve finally got lunch? How many Muggles did you have to Obliviate?”

“Oh, ha ha,” Ron responds, voice thankfully not all that close by, but still enough to jolt Harry out of his haze. “I did amazing, I’ll have you know. Where’s Harry?”

“No idea,” Ginny says, voice perfectly casual. “He buggered off the second you left. Have you checked his room?”

Harry steps over to the mirror, quickly scanning himself to make sure everything is back in place.

Ron only brusquely knocks once before pushing the door open. “Hey, mate. We’ve got lunch. Couldn’t you hear me?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Harry says, forcing himself to resist the urge to pat at his hair.

Ron frowns. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry says moving towards the door. “Of course. Everything’s fine. Glad to be done hefting boxes.”

Ron snorts in agreement. “Come on, get some food.”

Down in the kitchen Ginny and Hermione have laid out food on the table, the four of them settling around it. It’s comfortable and fun, and Harry can’t help imagining a lot more meals like this in the future.

Ginny smiles across the table at him, her foot brushing against his.

He forces himself to focus back in on the conversation after a moment, but doesn’t move his leg away from hers.

* * *

After nearly ten hours of travel, Ginny finally stands in front of her final International Floo grate in the Magical Transportation Department of Mumbai. It looks nearly identical to every other department she has passed through today. Bland walls, rows of uncomfortable seats, and a rather distinctly cheerless customs and borders official.

The International Floo Network is regulated by the International Confederacy of Wizards and the governing body seems to prefer impersonal function and standardization above all else, if her experiences thus far are anything to judge by.

In fact, the only real difference from country to country has been, of all things, the smell of the air, like the local atmosphere has stubbornly snuck in. They’re just small variances, like smell, temperature, pressure, and humidity. But just enough to say _you are not home anymore_.

For not having done much, Ginny feels exhausted, and dirty, but the excitement of her arrival is thundering away in her chest, like she’s just downed too much Keep Me Awake tonic. An official is weighing her wand, Ginny having already signed a ledger with her name, country of origin, and final destination. She does it by rote at this point, having followed a similar process at each of her six stops.

“Have you brought any goods to trade?” he asks, the same question she’s been asked over and over again at each stop when they see that her final destination as Tawang--a nation nestled in the northeastern-most region of India squeezed in between India, China, and Bhutan. But more importantly, a magical nation outside the treaties binding the International Confederacy, primarily thanks to their great crime of refusing to uphold the 17th century implementation of the Statute of Secrecy. A liminal space that is neither here nor there, a place somewhere between a storied past and an undefined future.

“No,” Ginny says. “I’m just visiting a friend.”

The official eyes her as if judging the veracity of her statement. “Bringing goods in or out of Tawang with the intention for profit is punishable by a five-hundred galleon fine and up to three years in prison.”

“I know,” Ginny says, this being far from the first time she’s heard this. While there are no open hostilities between Tawang and the ICW, they have imposed heavy economic sanctions, perhaps in hopes of bringing the small state in line. A tactic that has apparently worked on other rogue resistors, but has not yet brought Tawang to heel.

“In addition, the laws and protections of the International Confederacy of Wizards will not extend to you during your stay.”

Ginny nods tiredly. She’s wondered, at each stop, if they are trying to scare her away from visiting, the way they all make Tawang sound like some lawless land she’ll likely never return from.

With one more round of dire warnings complete with a pamphlet, he finally gives Ginny her wand back and lets her step up the Floo. She feels the familiar tumble and rush of Floo travel, only this one righter and more direct as there is only one possible destination. There are no fleeting glimpses of other grates or flashes of light, just solid darkness for a full count of ten and then her feet are slamming into an ashy grate on the other side.

Recovering her footing, Ginny finds herself standing in a very different room. There are still beige walls and benches, but the floor is tiled with reddish stone or clay, large windows opening out onto a town, impossibly tall mountains visible in the distance.

Ginny’s hands itch for her camera, but she reminds herself that she’ll have plenty of time for pictures. Ten whole days.

“Welcome to Tawang.”

Ginny turns, finding a witch distinctly not wearing an ICW uniform. “Thank you.”

The witch smiles. “Will you allow me to log your wand?”

Ginny nods, handing it over again, appreciating being asked nicely for once. Then again, she imagines there is nowhere as much traffic through this remote site. It’s the first crowd-less room she’s seen all day.

“Thank you,” the official says, returning her wand. “Your origin point was London?”

“Yes,” Ginny confirms.

She nods. “Then just a few things to keep in mind for your visit, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Ginny says, bracing herself for yet another round of dire warnings.

“Be careful of the altitude the first few days of your stay. Go slowly and drink plenty of water. Please also adhere to all rules. If you have any questions about our laws, our office is open most of the day.” She pauses, as if waiting for Ginny to ask any questions.

“Okay,” Ginny says.

“Well then,” she says, gesturing towards the doors. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” Ginny says.

She feels the fleeting press of wards as she passes through the door and then she is outside on a street. Unlike the heavy humidity of Mumbai, here there is a slight thinness to the air, a crisp coolness that feels nice after the long, long day. It’s barely dawn, the air quite cool. Ginny feels slightly dizzy, but she isn’t sure if that is fatigue or altitude or excitement. A few people are waking nearby, their dress just different enough to register as being strange, voices intoning in a language she doesn’t recognize.

It’s hardly Ginny’s first time abroad, having been to both Romania and Egypt, but it’s definitely the first time on her own, and everything is strange enough that she feels a little off-kilter.

“Ginny.”

She turns, and there Smita is, only like everything else she looks strange. Her clothes are different, her hair now long, pulled back in a plait. Not taller, just…older?

Ginny shakes her head against the ridiculous thought. _Of course_ she looks different. It’s been over two years since they’ve seen each other, barely sixteen when she left and now adults on the other side of a war.

“Smita,” she says, crossing over and pulling her into a hug, forgetting Smita has never been a big one for displays of affection. She pulls back immediately. “Sorry.”

Smita shakes her head, even as Ginny feels her watching her just as closely, looking for differences maybe. “It’s good to see you.”

Ginny smiles, trying to calm the jangle of nerves in her body. “Thank you for letting me come.”

It’s all awkwardly formal and terrible. Just give it time, she tells herself.

“This way,” Smita says, gesturing down the street. They start walking. “You must be tired.”

“Yeah. They don’t really make it easy to get here, do they?”

“No,” Smita says. “They certainly don’t. You should see the embargoes and restrictions. And the propaganda.”

“You mean these?” Ginny asks, holding up the pamphlet she’d been handed. “The breach of secrecy puts all wizards at risk, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Smita says, lips twitching.

Ginny laughs, dumping it into the next waste bin they pass.

It isn’t far to Smita’s home, a tidy two-storied house with low, white walls enclosing a riotous garden in the front.

They kick their shoes off in the entryway of the quiet home, Smita leading her up the stairs as Ginny cranes her neck, trying to take in all the details at once. She this is where Smita has been this whole time.

“This is my room,” Smita says, leading her into a small bedroom with an extra camp bed set up. You’ll be staying with me, if you don’t mind.”

It’s sparse, but cozy, lighting filtering in through the slatted windows. “It’s great,” Ginny says as the two of them continue to stand awkwardly.

Smita casts a time charm only to wince. “Sorry about this,” she says, “but my shift starts in twenty minutes.”

“It’s fine,” Ginny assures her. “I pretty much just want to sleep right now anyway.”

Smita shows her the bathroom and the kitchen, telling her that her brother and stepfather should be up soon, her mother currently away at a conference.

Alone up in the room again, Ginny sends a note off to Harry to let him know she arrived, takes a shower, her body growing sluggish. She’s honestly not sure how she’s going to make it through the day.

She sleeps for a short while, waking to the sound of people moving about downstairs.

In the kitchen, sitting at the table is a man about her parents’ age and a much younger boy of about nine, the resemblance between them clearly marking them as father and son--Smita’s stepfather and half-brother.

“Um, good morning,” Ginny says, wondering if there is a more strange way to meet people for the first time than to randomly appear in the middle of the night.

“You must be Ginny,” the older man says, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. “I’m Jaya and this is Arav.”

She shakes his hand. “It’s nice to meet you after hearing so much about you.” She smiles at the young boy, who other than sliding her a cautious look, keeps his attention on his breakfast.

“I could definitely say the same,” Jaya replies. “Smita speaks very highly of you. Come, have some breakfast. You must be hungry after your journey. It’s certainly a long one.”

Ginny sits. “It really was.”

“They didn’t give you too much trouble?” he asks as he pours her some tea.

“No. It was fine,” she says, wrapping her hands around the warm cup. “Though I am looking forward to not traveling by Floo for a few days.”

He smiles. “I can imagine.”

By the time Ginny clears her plate, she feels her eyes drooping again.

“Well, I know you aren’t going to like hearing it, but I think getting up and moving is the quickest way to adjust,” Jaya says. “We have a bit of a field trip for Arav’s schoolwork this morning if you would like to come. It’ll give you a chance to get the lay of the land.”

Arav pipes up for the first time, apparently having decided she isn’t all that scary. “We’re visiting the Tawang Monastery.”

Jaya smiles at Arav, mussing his hair. “It’s not far and I promise we won’t go by Floo.”

“Have you ever been to a Buddhist temple?” Arav asks.

“No, I haven’t,” Ginny admits.

“It’s ever so big.” He leans in as if imparting incredibly secret knowledge. “It’s the largest one in all of India.” 

“Well then,” Ginny says, “I will definitely have to come see it. Are you going to be my tour guide?”

“Maybe,” he decides. “I’ll be pretty busy with my schoolwork.” With that, he gets up from the table and disappears out of the kitchen.

“Sorry about that,” Jaya says. “He’s at that fun age where he moves wildly back and forth between wanting to share everything and being too cool to talk to old people.”

Ginny laughs, shaking her head. “I’m sure my brothers would say it’s about time I paid my dues for being the youngest.”

Ginny slips upstairs to grab a Muggle coat after seeing what the other two are wearing, scooping up her camera and a few rolls of film as well.

They climb into a rusty old Land Rover. When Jaya said they weren’t going by Floo, she didn’t think he meant they would go by car. He is clearly comfortable with driving it though, and she has to remind herself that things are different here, not to mention that Jaya himself is a Muggleborn.

It still startles her, the way Muggle and magical things are entwined here, and it’s hard to know what feels more foreign, that or the landscape and languages and foods.

They pass through the village, houses getting further and further apart, fields of crops cramped against steep slopes slowly giving way to rocks and trees as they start to climb up a winding road through rugged mountains and lakes.

After less than an hour in the car, during which Arav keeps up a steady stream of facts about the monastery, they come to the edge of a large lake, but rather than turning, Jaya drives straight out into the water.

Ginny can’t help but let out a small sound of distress, even as the car does not sink down into the water, but continues on straight ahead as if there is a solid road beneath them.

“Sorry,” Jaya says. “Probably should have warned you about that one.”

On the other shore, they pass through what looks like a simple roadblock if not for the clear warding of the boundary.

“We cross out of the village and surrounding lands here. Technically back in ICW jurisdiction, meaning you should limit any magic use. Don’t want to cause an international incident on your very first day.”

“Sure,” Ginny says, still trying to process all the boundaries and rules.

The monastery isn’t much further, a huge collection of white buildings climbing up the side of a hill, crowned with a building with yellow, curving roofs.

“I have to build a model of the main temple for my school project,” Arav explains. “We’re learning about all of the religions in the area.”

They have to trudge up a lot of stairs to reach the top, Ginny’s heart thundering away in her chest and her hands feeling a little tingly after only the first flight. She pauses, fiddling with her camera as an excuse as Arav joyfully plows ahead.

“Doing alright?” Jaya asks.

Ginny nods. “They weren’t kidding about the altitude.”

“No,” he says. He discreetly holds out a small vial of liquid. “This might help. Smita brewed it for you last night. Helps with oxygenation of the blood or something?” He shakes his head. “Definitely not my area of expertise.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take your word that you’re not poisoning me,” she says, downing the potion in one gulp. It tastes distinctly of corn and is cloyingly sweet. Her breathing almost immediately eases though. “Thank you.”

He pats her on her arm. “You should still take your time. We’ll meet you at the top.”

It certainly is easier now, but Ginny still goes slowly, stopping every once and a while to snap a photograph as the view below opens up and she notices more and more interesting details in the buildings—stucco walls and carved wood and intricate pieces of colorful cloth hanging over windows.

When she finally gets to the top, Arav and Jaya are already sitting on some stairs, Arav with a notebook as his father reads out loud in a quiet voice about something called the middle way. Ginny sits down and listens, looking out over the landscape in front of her. She feels like nothing could possibly be further away from Devon than this place.

“Ready to go inside?”

Ginny nods, stepping into the dark interior of the building. The floors are polished wood, tall columns supporting the roof, every surface painted with bright colors or hung with fabrics.

Arav takes her hand, leading her down the main aisle until they are standing in front of a large golden statue of a man in orange cloth. “His name was Siddhartha,” Arav says, voice soft as he leans into her. “He lived a very long time ago.”

Ginny looks up into the half-lowered eyes, taking in the long ears and knobby hair. “Can you tell me about him?” Ginny asks just as quietly.

They spend maybe another hour there, Arav doing sketches in his notebook, and Ginny taking a few discreet photographs once Jaya assures her that it is okay. 

“Shall we head back down and find somewhere to have lunch?”

“Sounds good,” Ginny agrees.

On the way back down, Arav keeps pace with her. “Maybe tomorrow we can take you to our temple,” he says.

She smiles at him. “I’d like that.”

They have lunch in the village, where Ginny feels like she doesn’t know where to look first. She dozes off on the drive back, despite her intention of paying much closer attention to the lake road this time around. They return late in the afternoon, Jaya starting dinner in the kitchen while Arav disappears off with friends to play. Ginny pens a few letters, already feeling like there is too much to talk about to possibly get into a letter. If she wants any of them to get home before she does though, she needs to send them soon.

With her letters done, she tells herself she’s just going to rest her eyes for a few moments. She wakes much later to the sound of someone moving around the room. It’s completely dark now except a soft pool of light coming from the tip of a wand.

“Smita?” she asks groggily.

She turns. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine,” Ginny says, pushing herself up to sit cross-legged on the bed. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Smita pulls her nightclothes out a drawer. “Are you hungry? There’s still some food left from dinner.”

Ginny winces, not realizing she’d slept through dinner entirely. “No,” she says. “I’m okay. We had a pretty big lunch.”

Smita nods. “They said they took you to the monastery.”

“Yeah,” Ginny says, rubbing a hand across her face. “It was beautiful.”

Smita regards her, eyes on her face like she’s looking for something. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come.”

“Smita,” Ginny says, still feeling gritty and groggy from her impromptu nap. “I didn’t come here expecting you to drop everything. I knew you would have work for part of the time. It’s fine. I had a great day. I’m glad I’m here.”

“Okay,” Smita says, lifting her clothes as if in explanation and then heading out into the hall for the bathroom.

Ginny gets up, changing into her pajamas as well, lazily casting a cleaning charm on her teeth before falling back into bed.

Smita returns, settling into her bed and extinguishing her wand. It’s strangely like old times, the two of them lying in beds next to each other, only completely different in all the ways that matter.

“Your brother is sweet,” Ginny says when it feels like the silence is pressing in uncomfortably.

“He is.”

Ginny rolls over onto her side, tucking her hand under her cheek. She can just barely make out Smita’s profile in the dark. “You lucked out. I only have one brother that sweet and he’s been living in Romania since I was eight.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s still sweet,” Smita says.

Ginny’s eyes widen, feeling a beat of shock before she laughs, something loosening in her stomach. “Probably,” she agrees. She props herself up on her elbow, relieved at this sign that things don’t have to be weird between them. “Arav would be starting Hogwarts next year, wouldn’t he? If you were all still in England?”

She finds it hard to believe either of them were _ever_ that young.

“No,” Smita says. “He’s not magical.”

“Oh,” Ginny says, feeling a jolt in her chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Why are you sorry?” Smita asks.

Ginny has the distinct feeling she’s said the wrong thing. “I didn’t mean…” She breaks off, feeling like there isn’t any right thing to say anymore.

They are both quiet, and Ginny rolls onto her back, silently fuming at herself for being thoughtless and messing this up when things were just starting to feel like…what? The way they used to be? They haven’t seen each other in _years_ , and they’ve both changed. She tells herself it’s to be expected. It doesn’t make it any less painful.

“Do you know what they call him here?” Smita asks.

“Arav?” Ginny asks warily.

“They call him Muggle, or the equivalent anyway. They don’t even have a word for Squib. Or Muggleborn. Jaya thinks it’s because they all live together. Muggle. Wizard. It’s not like it’s perfect—there’s fighting and misunderstandings and the ICW pressure can be a lot. But they don’t even have a word for that. He isn’t broken or a failure. He’s just…who he is, and there’s a space for him either way. A space for him to be with his family, regardless of magical ability. Be with us and have a place that is his own too.”

Ginny stares up at the ceiling, considering that, the avalanche of words, the way Smita isn’t angry exactly as much as impatient. Like England and all its problems is something she’s moved beyond or just doesn’t have time for anymore.

“Did I ever tell you about Bassenthwaite?” Ginny asks.

“Just that he was expected to die but didn’t.”

She fills Smita in on the way he’s being treated as a Squib, by the law, by his family, even by Tilly. They talk for a long time, and it’s awkward and yet not and that’s okay.

Because, yes, a lot of things have changed, but she is still Smita.

“Funny that we’re supposed to think this is the backwards place,” Ginny says, thinking of all the pamphlets and dire warnings.

“No place is perfect. Some just try to pretend they are more than others.”

Ginny looks over at Smita. “Yeah.”

* * *

The first day of Harry’s apprenticeship rolls around only a couple days after Ginny leaves for Tawang. Hermione is up half the night trying to memorize every law ever written. It’s not that he blames her for being nervous. He’s a bit on edge himself. And maybe he would have done some prep work too if he had any idea at all what to expect.

“This is almost worse than the very first day of Hogwarts,” she says over breakfast.

“You’re going to be great,” Ron says, having shown up early to cook them a proper breakfast in a show of solidarity. Or more likely simply spent the night, but Harry tries his best not to comment on things like that since it seems to embarrass them.

“Did you pack me a lunch?” Harry asks instead, hoping to lighten the mood.

“No,” Ron says, sliding an egg onto his plate. “But only because Kreacher beat me to it.”

Harry smiles, trying to calm his stomach long enough to eat.

Ron keeps up a steady stream of good cheer through breakfast, though neither Harry nor Hermione manage to eat all that much.

Ron sees them off. “Got all your things?” he asks at the door. “Your cloak? Clean pants?”

“Yes, mum,” Harry says.

Ron leans in and presses a brisk kiss to Harry’s cheek. “Have a nice day, dear.”

Harry bursts out laughing, the tight wad of dread in his stomach loosening.

Ron gives Hermione a more proper farewell, speaking low in her ear as she nods, fingers twisting in front of her.

“Now go show that bloody Ministry who’s boss, you two,” he says, giving them a jolly wave.

Despite breakfast and Ron’s antics, they still arrive quite early, Hermione intent on making a good first impression, or more likely trying to avoid the recurring nightmare she had all week about being late. Either way, Harry is more than happy to avoid the morning crowd of Ministry workers, to slip in as quietly as possible.

Together, they head for the lifts, hands clinging to the loops as it flings into motion.

Hermione gets out first, giving him an impulsive hug. “Good luck,” she says.

“You too,” Harry says, patting her on the arm as he tries not to think of another time they split off from each other in the Ministry in search of Dolores Umbridge and a Horcrux. At least it can’t be that horrible. Right?

Hermione gives him a bracing smile, the lift doors closing and jolting back into motion, Harry’s minimal breakfast roiling in his stomach.

Down on the ninth floor, Harry steps out into the dark hall. He eyes the stairwell that he knows from far too much personal experience leads down to the dungeon courtrooms used by the Wizengamot.

But he isn’t going to think about that today.

Unfortunately the long dark hallway ahead of him holds more troubling memories. His throat is thick with it for a moment, that frantic night running down the hallways, rushing off to save Sirius, wondering if he’s managed to damn his friends with his stupid mistake. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the others with Death Eater wands at their throats.

It’s possible this was a really terrible idea.

As he enters the Department of Mysteries lobby, he’s greeted by a harried-looking wizard who thrusts a set of robes at him. They are purple and marked with a crest marked with the letters D, O, and M. Less of a mouthful than Department of Mysteries, Harry supposes.

“Wand,” he says.

“Excuse me?” Harry asks.

“Give me your wand. It will need to be keyed to give you access to the low-level areas of the department,” he says, like somehow Harry is the thickest person he’s ever met.

“Right,” Harry says, handing it over.

He pulls on his new robes, shrinking his generic set down and shoving them in his bag as the wizard logs Harry’s wand.

Having completed that, the wizard actually looks up at Harry for the first time. “Um, Mr. Potter,” he says, as if his identity has just occurred to him. “Your wand.” He holds it out.

Harry takes it from him. “Thanks. Do I just wait here?”

The wizard shakes his head. “No. You can go through.”

The doorway leads into the large circular room Harry remembers all too well, the slick black-tiled walls only interrupted by the collection of ornate doorways leading to the vaults. Harry shuffles to the side near one of them as other people bustle in, his eyes on the doorways and thoughts on the strange things he knows lurk behind them. He settles in to wait.

Only a few minutes have passed when he looks up, noticing a group of people in the middle of the room he swears weren’t there a moment ago. Five of them are in the same purple robes Harry is now wearing. The other apprentices?

They’re all quite a bit older than him, he notices as he crosses over to join them, only recognizing one or two as older students from his early days at Hogwarts. Lucas, he thinks the tall handsome one is called.

No one greets him or introduces themselves as he approaches, so Harry just kind of slots into the group without a word.

A rather distracted-looking wizard strides past them muttering to himself, his robes marked with the same crest, only his are a pure white with a green and silver velvet hood flapping behind him.

“That’s Saul Croaker,” one of the apprentices whispers, awe in her voice.

Harry isn’t sure if he’s supposed to know who that is, but a moment later a different sour-faced wizard of middling age wearing a set of grey robes arrives, clearing his throat. “Well now that Mr. Potter has graced us with his presence, shall we get started?”

All of the apprentices turn to look at him, betraying various levels of surprise and confusion as if they hadn’t known he was there. Harry feels his face heat up, about to point out that he is a full half hour early when he glances down at his watch, stunned to see that it’s actually ten after. “What—?”

Before Harry can finish, the wizard is talking again.

“I am Clarent Mintumble,” he says, lips only pressing together in greater displeasure when a few of the apprentices gasp as if this name is even more salacious than Harry’s. “I assist Madam Grizelle Goldhorn, who is this year coordinating the apprentice program.” He sounds longsuffering, though Harry can’t be sure if that is the job of looking after apprentices or if Madam Goldhorn is of particular annoyance.

Many of the apprentices are eyeing the doors around them.

“I would hope it goes without saying that you are all forbidden from going anywhere near the research vaults.”

The apprentice next to Harry lets out a disappointed sigh. Harry is only relieved to hear he won’t have to face them for a while.

“You will all be in here,” Mintumble says, ushering them down another hallway, leading them into what is a surprisingly boring-looking office space. There are low-walled cubicles and a few tables with chairs around them that must be used for meetings.

“Sit.”

The apprentices sit around a small table, a slim, leather-bound volume appearing in front of each of them.

“This text is our standing rules and regulations. Everything you need to know about the department is delineated in there. You are expected to read through it by the end of the week. Which means don’t ask me stupid questions that you already have the answer to.”

Everyone at the table is quiet, clearly not wanting to tempt fate by asking anything.

Mintumble nods in satisfaction. “Good. And now, for your paperwork.” With a flick of his wand, a thick roll of parchment appears in front of each of them. “These are your secrecy agreements. While obviously none of you will take blood vows required for Unspeakables, you are still to abide by the basic rules of secrecy surrounding this department. Read, initial by each statement, and then sign at the end.” 

Harry is glad Hermione insisted he bring a bag of basic supplies with him, as all of the other apprentices immediately pull out quills and ink and set to work.

Harry unrolls the first foot, finding an endless stream of statements.

 _I will not discuss proprietary research with anyone outside of the DoM._  
_I will not remove items from the department._  
 _I will not copy research without written permission._  
 _I will not sabotage the research of others._  
 _I will not plagiarize or claim someone else’s work as my own._

Harry tenses as someone steps up behind him. He turns, finding Mintumble peering down at him. Harry loosens his grip on his wand, but doesn’t let go of it.

“Yes, sir?” he asks, striving to keep things polite as possible.

“For some reason, Mr. Potter, I do not have an application or letter of interest from you,” he drawls as if he is definitely aware of why that is. “You will need to fill these out as well. But do it on your own time, will you? Have it ready tomorrow.” With that, he hands Harry another roll of parchment.

Harry nods, tucking it away into his bag. Glancing around, he can see that many of the other apprentices are halfway through the roll already, so Harry scrambles to catch up, his eyes nearly glazing over as he reads through the endless litany of things they are not allowed to do. Most of it seems reasonable enough, even as some are laughably specific, as if any time any sort of conflict happens in the department, a new bylaw is introduced.

_I will not steal teabags from anyone’s personal stash._

Harry fights back a smile, looking up as if wondering if anyone else found that particularly funny, but the other apprentices’ quills are quickly ticking along, fast enough that Harry doubts they are actually reading any of them. Like they are eager enough to be in the place on whatever terms they have to be.

He starts to consider what it will mean, not being able to talk to Ron and Hermione about any of this, let alone Ginny.

Harry is in the middle of initialing next to _I will not take offices supplies home for personal use_ , when a voice at the back of his mind that sounds an awful lot like Ginny wonders just what the consequences of these terms are. What would happen if he told Hermione about something interesting he saw, or if he described the people he meets down here to Ron? If he wants to talk to Ginny about something that happens? 

The rest of the apprentices have reached the end, many signing their names with a flourish. Remembering another piece of parchment with signatures on it, Harry pulls out his wand, subtly casting a few diagnostic spells, augmenting with a rune or two for increased detection of magical signatures.

“They haven’t been cursed,” a voice says.

Harry looks up, finding himself being watched by a tall witch he didn’t notice enter the room. She’s a study in contrasts, her black hair stark against the white of her robes, her dark, slanting eyes regarding him out of a pale, round face. Her lips, he notices, twitch slightly as if in amusement.

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t take your word for that,” Harry says before he can think better of it. He scrambles to make that sounds slightly less rude. “Uh, Madam…”

“Goldhorn,” she supplies.

His new boss. Of bloody course. 

She doesn’t look particularly angry or annoyed though, coming around the table to look down at his parchment. “You would be better served, by the way, by using the modifier _laguz_ , for you are not merely tugging apart pieces, but trying to make the unseen seen. Do you not agree?”

“Um,” is all Harry manages in response.

Mintumble is glaring at him as if he is wasting everyone’s time, or being presumptuous, daring to address Madam Goldhorn. She begins to walk back away, the rest of the apprentices watching her with a mix of awe and wariness.

“And what is the punishment for breaking them?” Harry calls out after her.

The other apprentices look back down at the papers, some of them blinking as if they hadn’t considered it, others shrugging it off like they are too eager to care what the consequences might be.

Goldhorn turns back to look at him, something a bit flinty in her eyes as she regards him. “Are you planning on breaking them?”

“Not particularly,” Harry admits, deciding this is hardly the time to confess that he’s never had much use for rules. It honestly feels like a bit of an inevitability, really.

“Well, you would be removed from the program more than likely. Which may include Obliviating any information we deem unsafe for you to have.”

“That’s all?” he presses.

She laughs. “And what did you imagine happened to apprentices who break secrecy? You’ll hardly know anything of enough importance to even matter. If you did, you would be required to take the blood vow as well.”

That, Harry gets the sense, has much more dire consequences.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have far more interesting things to be doing. Mintumble will take you on a tour of the basic facilities. And I shall meet you in the vault room after lunch.”

With that, she leaves, the other apprentices looking at each other.

Harry quickly initials down the rest of the rules, only hesitating slightly before signing his name at the end.

Mintumble waves his wand, the parchments splitting into two copies. “Keep the copy and pass the original in to me.”

Harry tucks it into his bag, but not before writing a small note to himself to look up _laguz_ when he gets the chance.

“Come along, we don’t have all day,” Mintumble says, sweeping them back out of the room.

He leads them through a series of office spaces, but also long hallways with closed doors, each with a person’s name on a placard next to them.

What follows is a whirlwind tour of the facilities, peppered more of then than now with ‘never go there.’

“These are the offices and lab spaces of the current Unspeakables and various under-scholars. Do not disturb them, knock on doors, or enter them at any time without explicit permission. We don’t want any disappearances this year, okay?” He says this more like it’s a bother than being actually worried for any of them.

They eventually come to an intersection of hallways radiating out in a starburst pattern. “Potions and elixirs, animals and creatures, elemental magics, experimental wandlore,” he ticks off, gesturing in each direction in turn, none with any additional explanation. “But we shall start with the libraries and archives.”

With that, he leads them down to a huge vaulted room lined with bookcases floor to ceiling. It’s like the Hogwarts library, only much, much larger.

“There are two libraries—the research library and the book depository. Here in the research library, copies of all of the work done in the Department of Mysteries as well as reference materials are kept. Your assigned readings for your seminars will come from this space. The book depository,” he gestures to a door at the end of the long space, “houses rare tomes and texts that are themselves the focus of research. While you will all have access to the research library, you will need special permission to enter the book depository, and no items may be removed from the depository itself but must be studied in place.”

It sounds a lot like the restricted section at Hogwarts, Harry considers as he eyes the thick oaken door separating them from the depository.

“In addition,” Mintumble says, walking them back out into the hall and down to two large round doors that look like vaults, “there are two archives.” He gestures at the first door—a tall, broad portal with ornate metalwork on the oaken planks. “The first is where magical objects and materials are stored. Each of these sections have two senior archivists, two junior archivists, two assistants, and three clerks. You will be sure not to bother anyone but the clerks.” He says this dismissively, like the clerks are almost as useless as the apprentices are. 

“Are the objects available for study?” Lucas asks, sounding very eager.

“With proper approval and funding,” Mintumble says. “But one must always make one’s case.”

“And the other vault?” a witch called Hilda asks, gesturing towards a particularly fortified round vault door that reminds Harry of Gringotts.

“That is the archival depository. Primarily artifacts that have been discovered by Unspeakables during site explorations, objects that are unknown or unfamiliar but believed to be dangerous. You will not have access to that archive.”

“Ugh,” Gaspar complains in an undertone. “Then what’s the point?”

“Now let us head for the potions labs,” Mintumble says, apparently having not heard that or just not caring. He leads them back down another hall.

Harry glances back at the vault one last time before scurrying to catch back up to the group, wondering if he’s going to need to make himself a map to be able to find his way around.

Over lunch Harry learns that Mintumble is the descendant of Eloise Mintumble, one of the most notorious Unspeakables ever—one who meddled with time and not only killed herself, but disappeared several other people during the process. The apprentices speak of it with equal fascination and horror.

Madam Goldhorn reappears just as they finish. She leads them back out to the round chamber with the various doors that Harry is far less eager to see than all the other apprentices.

“Now that all the mundane things are out of the way, it’s time to discuss the research vaults you are no doubt so curious about, but will have no access to,” she says once they are all standing in the chamber. “As you may have heard, this room is designed to disorient people who are not supposed to be here. Only Unspeakables who have taken the blood vow have access to the vaults, and only when granted by the review board. You _may_ , in a few years time, find yourself assisting an Unspeakable in their research. Something all of you should work tirelessly towards earning.”

This, Harry supposes, is the great prize they are all supposed to be vying for. He wonders what the other apprentices would say if they knew he’d already been inside most of them, or even more that he’d be fine never entering any of them again. Though considering he’d been running for his life during most of that, it’s not like he actually saw much.

“Here we study the basic elements of the universe,” Madam Goldhorn continues. “Space, time, energy, the mind, the body, the future, and of course, death. Each a powerful source of knowledge and the key to understanding who we are, why we are here, and where we are going.”

She is clearly passionate about the subject, and Harry finds himself remembering his very first day of lessons at Hogwarts, listening to Snape wax poetic about potions. It’s not exactly a comforting parallel to draw.

“Unfortunately,” she says. “Two of the vaults are currently closed for study.”

Harry looks up sharply, but Goldhorn isn’t looking at him.

“Why is that?” Hilda asks.

Goldhorn folds her hands in front of her, her lips thinning with displeasure. “A break-in occurred a few years ago. The Hall of Prophecies in particular sustained considerable damage and is far too dangerous to enter at this time. It will no doubt take a few more years to render it functional again.”

Harry remembers the crash of crystal balls and the cacophony of voices layered on top of each other--both shouted spells and the last fading echoes of prophecies as they struggled to just stay alive. He wonders if each individual shard is cursed, even in its broken state. He winces, understanding why that might take a while to sift through.

The other apprentices are all looking scandalized.

“How did someone break in?” Lucas asks, like it should have been impossible.

“That is still unclear.” Goldhorn indicates another one of the vault doors. “The Time Chamber also suffered severe damage, though more has been done to restore it. But be sure not to linger too closely. Time is still quite finicky in the vicinity.”

And this finally explains Harry’s troubles this morning with arriving on time.

“I’ve heard there is a vault for studying love,” Gaspar says. “With an Amortentia fountain inside.”

Goldhorn lets out a dismissive sound. “Yes, love. Though to be more precise, blood.” For the first time, her eyes stray across Harry, only so quickly he’s not sure if he imagined it.

The lecture continues on for another hour, Goldhorn answering a barrage of questions about the research done in each of the vaults, never quite giving enough information to appease Harry’s fellow apprentices.

“No questions, Mr. Potter?” she asks at one point, something just the slightest bit acerbic in her tone, and he’s certain then that she knows exactly what role he played in the break-in.

“No, Madam,” he says.

The afternoon is capped off with Mintumble returning to lecture them on the basic functions and organization of the department, which mostly seems aimed at reinforcing just how unimportant the apprentices are in the larger scheme of things.

By the time Harry makes it home that evening—carefully avoiding the time vault door this time—he’s exhausted. It’s not that he even did all that much, it was just a lot to take in. He feels ready to fall asleep in his soup, but Hermione is nearly bouncing off the walls, talking fast about everything that happened. How things have and haven’t met her expectations, her thoughts on the other apprentices.

“And you?” Ron asks when she takes a breath.

“I’m not actually supposed to talk about anything,” Harry reminds him. “Though I can say that they are still working on the cleanup.”

Ron snorts. “They should send Ginny a cleaning bill for that Reducto.”

Harry rubs at his nose. “It’s weird though. The research vaults are really secure. We don’t even have access to them. Won’t for years supposedly, and only if we’re lucky.”

“Considering what’s in them, that makes sense,” Ron points out.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “But we got in there easily enough.”

“Perhaps they’ve increased security since then?” Hermione says.

“Yeah,” Ron says. “Or You-Know-Who had someone open it all up for us?”

That is exactly what Harry has been wondering all day. “If they did, do you think they ever figured out who?”

“I don’t remember any Unspeakables being on trial,” Ron says. “You think they might still be there?”

Harry shrugs.

It’s Hermione who shakes her head. “Magical Law Enforcement has no jurisdiction in the DoM.”

“None?” Ron says, clearly alarmed.

Hermione is watching Harry closely now, her brow furrowed. “It’s the only department in the Ministry that has no oversight. It runs completely independently in order to ensure academic freedom.”

“That seems like a terrible idea,” Ron says.

“I’ve always thought so too,” Harry admits. “Ever since Bill first mentioned it.”

Both Ron and Hermione turn to look at him like he’s said something extraordinary.

“Harry,” Hermione says. “Is _that_ why you took a position there?”

“I had a lot of reasons, Hermione,” he says, feeling strangely nettled.

Ron gives him a long searching look. “Do you really think something is going on down there?”

Harry drags his spoon through his soup. “They have a giant archive down there. Full of texts, but also objects. It’s enough to make you wonder what could be down there, what kinds of things they’re playing with. The things Bill and I saw down in Mountley’s vault…they were just…” He shakes his head, still remembering the feel of that space, the Death Eater robes hanging in a place of honor. If what Bill said is true, all those things are down there already.

 _All I can do is keep an eye on what’s under my nose. And that’s more than would happen if I wasn’t there_ , he remembers Bill saying about his job at Gringott’s.

Hermione sits back, letting out a breath. “I honestly can’t decide if this is better or worse than thinking you’re just hiding from Macmillan and the press.”

Confirming, of course, that they have been talking about him, like always.

Worst of all, Ron looks troubled.

Harry sighs. “Let’s hear it then.”

He glances up in surprise. “Oh, I just…if you’re not even allowed to talk to us about any of it—I mean I _know_ they never would have taken me too—but how are we supposed to be able to help you? I mean, who’s going to have your back?”

Something warm and tight seems to settle in Harry’s chest. “I’m not planning on getting into trouble.”

Ron snorts. “Yeah. Okay. Sure. Someone write down the time and place he said that. I want a record of it.”

Harry laughs, shaking his head.

“You laugh now,” Ron says, “but we should put some galleons down on it. If I had any.”

“Well, if you really want to help, I have a four-thousand-word essay about my academic achievements and career aspirations to write by morning.”

Ron’s face twists up in disgust. “Ugh, _homework_? Nevermind, mate. You’re on your own.”

Harry pushes to his feet. “Probably for the best. I can only imagine what you’d try to put in it.”

Ron lifts his hand, sweeping it across the air. “Highlights include feeding a professor to Centaurs!”

“That was Hermione,” Harry points out.

“True,” Ron concedes. “What about catching the Snitch with your mouth?”

Harry nods. “That _was_ pretty great. I’m sure it will impress my boss.”

“Oh, don’t forget my absolute favorite of all time,” Ron says, eyes closing as if savoring a particularly cherished memory. “ _There’s no need to call me sir, professor_.” He wipes away an imaginary tear.

Harry grins. “I’ll be sure to include that. Though I think they’re more likely looking for evidence that I am not a total plank.”

Hermione makes an impatient sound. “You did get five NEWTs including an Outstanding on Defense, if you recall. You’re hardly unintelligent. I think if you actually _applied_ yourself, you would do quite well.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry says, voice wry. “Glad to know you don’t think I’m a complete dunderhead, just lazy.”

“Oh, yes,” Ron says, jabbing his finger in the air. “Don’t forget survived ambush by the Head bloody Auror at the tender age of seventeen!”

“Still being alive _is_ my best achievement,” Harry says.

“ _Harry_ ,” Hermione chastises, her face going ashen. 

Harry shoves his hands in his pockets. “Too soon?”

“Not if you keep doing it,” Ron says flippantly. “Though it might be time to step up your game. Get a slightly less dramatic aim in life.”

“Hmm,” Harry says. “Like _Witch Weekly’s_ Most Charming Smile Award?”

Ron lets out a bark of laughter, slapping his knee. “Have you not got that already? We’ll have to start a campaign immediately!”

“Honestly,” Hermione says in exasperation. “You’re going to need me to proofread this for you, aren’t you?”

Ron grins, gesturing at her. “See? Just like old times.”

Finally heading upstairs, Harry finds himself in a much better mood. As much as he needs to get started on the bloody application essay, he instead reaches for his Ginny-parchment. She’s four and a half hours ahead in Tawang, which is much easier than the nine-hour difference to Australia, but still requires her to stay up pretty late to talk to him. He doesn’t want her up any later than she needs to be, especially since she’s been battling Floo-lag.

 _Hey_ , he writes. _I’m finally home and done with Ron and Hermione’s endless game of twenty questions._

He sits back to wait, kind of zoning out as he stares at his wall.

 _Well, you sound like you are all done with people prying_ , she writes back not much later, _but I shall take advantage of my extreme distance by daring to ask you how your first day was anyway._

Harry can’t help but huff in amusement. _It was weird_.

_Somehow I imagine that’s the understatement of the century._

_You have no idea. The best part? Macmillan tried to get me summoned to a Ministry-wide meeting I had no business going to. On the first bloody day._

_The Minister of Information?_ she writes _. That conniving arsehole is just never going to give up, is he? I would almost admire it if I didn’t want to hex him so bad._

Harry smiles, feeling stupidly gratified to have her take his side. _Fortunately my supervisor thinks I am, in general, a giant waste of space, and could see absolutely no reason to send me._

 _Most people wouldn’t see that as a positive, Harry. Not to mention being a_ _complete lie_ _. Though him not being willing to use you for political gain can only be good, I suppose._

 _I honestly don’t think it even occurred to him._ It had been the only good part of the request for Harry showing up, Mintumble looking at him like he couldn’t fathom a single reason he should go to any meetings, let alone one as important as this one. It did also seem to confirm to the other apprentices that he isn’t looking for any special treatment.

Ginny doesn’t respond for a little while, just long enough that Harry wonders if she was called away.

Then she writes, _Do you hate it?_

 _No_ , Harry says, surprised to find that he means it.

 _Really?_ she writes back, and he realizes she’s probably worried for him.

 _Yeah,_ he assures her. _It’s interesting. More than I thought it would be._

_At least there’s that._

Harry stares down at her familiar handwriting, imagines her somewhere halfway around the world, maybe already in her pajamas, curled up in a bed.

 _I miss you,_ he writes before he can talk himself out of it.

 _Yeah,_ she writes. _I miss you too._

* * *

Ginny spends a wonderful few days exploring the village, trying all sorts of interesting foods, buying a few small gifts—far under the tariff restrictions of course. Most nights she and Smita stay up late talking, not quite like they used to, now discussing things like career goals and plans, both of them determinedly skirting around other topics.

One night Ginny fills Smita in on Ballycastle and her family’s reaction.

Smita is a good audience, quietly intent on her words, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise at all the right places.

“It’s almost as if they’ve forgotten who you are,” she says when she finishes.

“And who is that?” Ginny asks.

“The first girl on the Slytherin Quidditch team in over a decade.”

Ginny lets out a humorous laugh, Caroline’s young face rising up in her mind. She squeezes her eyes shut against the memory. “Why does it feel some days like following our passion is an act of rebellion itself?”

Smita smiles.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “It’s just good to know you haven’t changed.”

“I haven’t?” Ginny isn’t sure how that can possibly be true, even as part of her really wants to believe it.

“It makes you happy. It always has.”

Ginny nods, knowing how much Quidditch has always centered her, how no matter what, that was always one of the places where things made sense. “My brothers and parents, they look at my plan and see risk and selfishness and danger. Do you know what I see?”

“What?”

Ginny carefully swallows. “Safety.”

She wonders if it’s because Smita wasn’t there for any of it, because she’s still so far outside of it all, that makes it easy to admit. If maybe she’s been writing this letter inside her head for a year and here it finally all is.

“It may very well be out of my reach, but it’s a challenge, something for me to put everything into. Something to work towards, push myself. And all in a world with clear rules, a simple aim, where the things being tested are my discipline, my strength, my perseverance, my will. And if I fail, the only risk is to my ego. If I fail…”

She falls silent, her words suddenly drying up.

“No one will die,” Smita says.

Ginny sucks in a breath. “No one will die,” she agrees. 

Playing Quidditch isn’t going to make the world better. It isn’t going to fix the Ministry or Bassenthwaite’s life or bring Nicola’s parents back from the dead. It isn’t going to bring her brother back or erase the things that happened. It isn’t going to protect anyone.

But she’s tired of being a weapon for a war that is supposed to be behind them.

She swallows against the thickness in her throat. “And maybe playing Quidditch I’ll be able to look in a mirror…and just see me again.”

Smita rolls over on her side, her eyes glinting in the dark as she regards Ginny. “Just how bad was it? At Hogwarts? That year the Dark Lord was in power?”

Ginny’s hands tighten on her quilt. “Didn’t Tobias ever tell you?”

“Some,” she says. “But that isn’t you.”

Despite the months of communication, Ginny’s never really gone into detail. Not with anyone. All this time later still trying to find her words. But maybe there just aren’t any.

“It was really terrible,” is all she can say. 

Smita stretches her hand out between the beds.

Ginny catches her fingers, squeezing tight. “It’s okay. It’s fine. It’s all behind me now. It’s over.” The DA, the things she learned and did. It’s all done. Over. And she doesn’t have to find some way to use all that.

She can just be safe.

* * *

The next day, Smita finally starts her time off work, the two of them having a lazy lie-in before emerging for breakfast.

“Can I take you on my favorite hike?” Smita asks.

Ginny’s done a few small walks, but was always sure to stay within view of the village. “Yeah,” she says. “I’d like that.”

After stowing some food and water in their packs, Smita leads her out of the village and much further off into the mountains, following a winding path. After a long morning spent walking, the path finally opens out onto a beautiful lake.

The deep blue of the water plays against green mountains rushing upwards on all sides, the tallest peaks permanently frosted with snow. Strands of colorful pieces of cloth strung between a row of posts line the shore, bright pops of color against the grey stones.

“Tapko Lake,” Smita says. “Named after the people whose land this is.”

“It’s beautiful,” Ginny says.

They settle on the shore, eating their lunch as they enjoy the quiet of this wondrous place.

Brushing crumbs free of her fingers, Ginny pulls out her camera, carefully framing a picture of the mountain and the lake, the flags flapping in the foreground. She takes a few shots, trying to somehow capture it all, even if a photograph feels like it could never be enough.

“May I?” Smita asks, holding her hands out for the camera.

Ginny finds herself feeling particularly protective of it, but after a brief hesitation, she passes it over.

“It’s a nice camera,” Smita says, looking it over.

“It was a gift.”

Smita doesn’t press, even though she is clearly curious. It burns in Ginny’s throat for a moment, the temptation to pour out everything about Harry, the choices they are making, the worry deep down in her stomach.

She won’t do that to him, though. No matter how much she trusts Smita to keep a secret. It wouldn’t be fair.

So instead she looks out over the lake and reminds herself that they aren’t the same girls who sat tucked up in bed all night, sharing all their deepest secrets and feelings.

Maybe Ginny’s never really been that way, if she’s honest. At least not since the war.

_I’m not used to having someone to share all of this with._

Ginny only turns when she hears a click of the camera, finding Smita taking a picture of her.

Smita shrugs. “Proof you were here.”

Ginny flashes her a weak smile, looking down at their feet, stretched out side by side, framed by rocks and water. “Feel free to tell me I don’t have the right to ask…”

“Ask,” Smita says.

“Why did things with Tobias not work out? Was it really just the distance?”

Smita doesn’t answer right away, and when Ginny looks, she is fiddling with the knobs on the camera, seemingly intent on the task, but Ginny knows better. She waits.

“Tobias was my first…well, everything. But sometimes your first isn’t your always.”

She doesn’t sound dismissive, exactly, more like detached. But Ginny knows better than to be fooled by that.

Smita lowers the camera back into her lap. “The distance didn’t exactly help. But I think it really comes down to what you’re willing to fight for.” She shrugs, seemingly untouched by the topic. “In the end, neither of us were.”

Ginny thinks there was probably a lot more to it, but doesn’t really know how to ask. “If you had come back, do you think…”

Smita shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Smita just nods, handing the camera back.

Ginny leans towards Smita, her shoulder brushing hers. “I’m really glad I came.”

Smita nods, turning to look at her. “Me too.”

A half an hour later, they pack everything up and start the long trek back.

* * *

Ginny makes it back to England without being fined or thrown in jail, so she counts it as a victory, even as she has to suffer through the same spiel about Tawang as a dangerous rogue nation. Ginny just bites back a sigh and keeps her opinions to herself.

Back at the Burrow, she’s exhausted but can’t sleep. She takes a shower, unpacks her bag and tosses everything in the laundry. But when she lies down to take a rest, she just can’t drift off. She ends up sitting in the kitchen, struck by how different everything is, and yet exactly the same, like she’s trying to squeeze herself back in.

It’s nearly dinner when the back door opens, Ron and Hermione walking in, Harry right on their heels.

She pops up to her feet before she can think better of it, turning to hug Ron right at the last moment to cover.

“What did you bring me?” he asks by way of greeting, hugging her back absently.

She laughs, pulling back and turning to Hermione for a hug next.

“I’m serious, Gin,” Ron says. “You’d better have brought me something!”

She rolls her eyes, turning to Harry, giving him a hug too. “Hey, Harry,” she says.

His arms close around her, hands firm against the back of her jumper and pressing tight for a far too brief moment before he lets her go.

“I really hope you did bring him something,” Harry says, stepping back away from her, “or none of us will ever hear the end of it.”

“There’s strict rules about bringing goods out of Tawang,” Ginny says.

“What?” Ron says.

“Oh, the economic sanctions, right?” Hermione asks, clearly intrigued.

Ron looks stupidly crestfallen enough that Ginny relents, pulling a collection of small cards out of her back pocket. “I did manage to get my hands on recipes for my favorite local dishes I tried.”

Ron’s face lights up, pulling them out of her fingers. “Wicked,” he says, giving her an absent one-armed squeeze. “Knew you’d come through.”

Ginny looks at Hermione. “I already developed some of my pictures, if you want to see them.”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “I’m ever so curious. Muggles and wizards living openly together?”

Hermione peppers her with questions as the four of them squeeze onto the couch. Hermione ends up half perched on Ron’s lap, Ginny squeezed in between them and Harry. She scoots closer to Harry under the pretense of giving Ron and Hermione a bit more room, Harry’s hand brushing her thigh as he settles himself.

“Oh, this is a nice one of you,” Hermione says, picking up the photograph Smita took of her by the lake.

“That’s Tapko lake,” Ginny says, taking it. “We hiked out there one day.” She pulls out a few more images of the same place, passing them to Harry when Ron and Hermione are done looking at them.

“These are nice,” Harry says, fingers brushing across her face in the photo, like maybe he’d rather be able to touch the real thing.

She looks up at him, their eyes catching. She feels something warm and full and _certain_ fill her chest.

This will work, she decides in that moment. Distance and challenges be damned. They will work. Because she knows exactly what she’s willing to fight for.

And she isn’t going to let anything stand in their way.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the rating and tags, y'all.

Having read about Harry’s academic ‘achievements’ and his nebulous interests involving things like ‘runes are cool’ and ‘I find wards really interesting,’ whatever small amount of interest Goldhorn seems to have shown him dries up completely.

She stares down at him like a very confusing bug. “You have never formally studied Runes or Arithmancy. Your History of Magic scores are abysmal. Transfiguration and Charms are slightly above average. Most people by the time they come to us have completed at least a few years of advanced study, often on the continent or abroad.”

This information comes as no surprise, Harry having spent the week listening to the other apprentices rattle off their experiences at institutes in Paris and Budapest and Lagos, or how many of them have close relatives who are already Unspeakables.

“Then why did you offer me this position?” Harry asks, despite already knowing the answer.

“Because the Minister insisted,” she says like it doesn’t even occur to her to lie.

“Fair enough,” Harry says, appreciating the honesty at least. “There is one thing I have that I doubt any of these others do.”

She frowns. “And what is that?”

“I know first-hand the dangers of what is down here.”

She doesn’t look particularly pleased by the reminder that Harry and his friends once ran roughshod over the department. He’d left _that_ out of his essay, unsurprisingly enough.

“There is that, I suppose. I should put you on clean-up duty if I had any hope you knew what you were doing.”

“Lucky me for being useless, I suppose,” he mutters.

Goldhorn ignores the sarcasm. “I hope you understand, Mr. Potter, that without some very serious work on your part, the chances that you will ever attain the higher ranks are slim. At the very least, your apprenticeship will last much longer than the others.”

He nods, assuming as much by this point. Having time doesn’t seem like the worst thing at the moment, to be honest. Time for what, he isn’t sure.

“There isn’t a lot of hand-holding down here,” she continues. “You’ll have to find your path for yourself.” She frowns down at his essay again, folding it in half with a sigh. “Prove yourself interesting, and I might be willing to set a curriculum for you at least.”

“Can’t say anyone has ever accused me of being boring,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

Goldhorn actually cracks a smile, but something about it reminds him of Ollivander’s predatory grin, so that isn’t particularly comforting. “No, I imagine they wouldn’t.”

He doesn’t see much of her after that, the whole lot of them getting passed off to a group of older apprentices.

There are three of them--a short, dark-haired wizard called Roman; the much more angular and tight-faced Circe; and a tall, brown-haired witch called Amelia that seems the kindest of the three right off the bat.

“Hoban’s out on field duty with Rotterberg, lucky bastard,” Roman says, explaining the absence of one of their colleagues. Each class is usually five—more evidence that Harry is a tacked-on sixth rather than one of the chosen five. 

“Speak for yourself,” Circe says with a sniff. “They’re probably slogging through a swamp somewhere, staying with who-knows-what kind of primitive tribe.”

“I’m sure they are getting a lot of interesting research done,” Amelia says, voice soft in juxtaposition to her size.

“You lot are lucky to have Amelia,” Roman says, giving her a smile. “She’s up for the top prize.”

This apparently means something to the other apprentices, all of them looking at her with admiration and speculative appraisal as if sizing up the competition.

Amelia shakes her head though. “Mabel would have beat us all there,” she says.

Circe gives her a sharp look, like she’s spoken out of turn.

“Mabel?” someone asks.

“Not important,” Circe says. “Now, let’s make a few things clear, shall we? You now work for us. Meaning you will do what we ask, when we ask, with minimal grumbling. And in exchange, we’ll _consider_ letting you tag along on some of the more interesting things happening around here.”

“Okay,” Roman says, clapping his hands together. “Now who’s going to get me a coffee?”

At lunch later in the week, Roman, Circe, and Amelia deign to eat with them, the whole lot of them apparently proving to be ‘less annoying than the average bunch,’ according to Roman. Harry understands this to be rather high praise.

Lunch is pretty much an excuse to gossip, as far as Harry can tell. There’s a larger Ministry canteen somewhere upstairs, but apparently most people from the DoM find it tiring being up there, seeing as how they can’t really talk about anything. Or, Harry suspects, they think themselves above the average Ministry employee.

His fellow first-year apprentices are excited to have people perhaps a bit more willing to indulge their curiosity than Mintumble and Goldhorn.

Gaspar, by far the most talkative of the group, leans forward eagerly. “I hear Unspeakable Bode had a breakdown, he was so upset about the destruction in the Hall of Prophecy,” he says. “Is that true?”

Roman laughs. “Took off for Tahiti or something,” he confirms.

“He didn’t have a breakdown,” Harry says before he can think better of it.

“And how would you know that?” Roman asks, expression a bit patronizing.

None of them have been particularly hostile to Harry, but it’s also clear that they think his ‘special treatment’ is going to somehow steal far too much attention. As if Harry wants anything to do with special attention.

“Because he was murdered,” Harry says, voice flat. 

Every head seems to swivel towards him. He spends most of his time at work listening rather than speaking these days.

“What?” Gaspar asks.

Harry nods briskly. “He was Imperiused by a Death Eater. Forced to try take a prophecy.”

Amelia frowns. “But he wasn’t the Keeper. Touching a prophecy that isn’t about you drives you mad.”

“It did,” Harry says, turning back to his lunch.

“But that wouldn’t kill him,” Roman counters. 

Harry shakes his head, poking his fork at his food and really wishing he hadn’t opened his mouth. “He started to come out of it, so someone snuck in a Devil’s Snare clipping next to his hospital bed, and then… Well.” He waves his fork vaguely before tightening his fist around it, letting their imaginations fill it in for them.

“Why?” Amelia asks, not so much disbelieving as horrified.

Harry shrugs. “Voldemort probably wanted to make sure Bode couldn’t tell anyone what he’d really been doing or why. Everyone was still happily pretending he hadn’t come back, weren’t they?”

“Except you,” Lucas says, reminding Harry that he’d still been at Hogwarts that year. 

Harry lets out a humorless laugh. “Yes, but I was a nutter, wasn’t I?”

Lucas’ eyes narrow, like he’s connecting the various dots. “You were here. During the break-in that wrecked everything. That’s why you know so much about it. Why you weren’t curious about the vaults.”

Harry shrugs.

“Because there _was_ a prophecy about you,” Gaspar says. “That wasn’t all just rubbish, was it.”

This is the first time any of them have ever touched on Harry’s role in the war, or what they all assume his role was. Of course, that doesn’t mean they haven’t talked about him when he’s not here.

“Does it matter?” Harry asks.

They all look at him like he’s mad.

“Did you get it? The prophecy about you?”

“It was destroyed before I could hear it,” Harry says, as close to the truth as he’s willing to get.

The table falls into heavy silence, all sorts of unspoken conversations seeming to happen all around him.

Harry rubs at this nose. “I’m surprised no one down here knows about any of this.” Roman, Circe, and Amelia would have already been here at the time, even if just finishing their first year.

“They were quiet about it, unusually so,” Roman says. “I thought it was just because we were only first-years.”

Harry shrugs, picking up his mostly uneaten lunch and shifting to his feet. “I’m going to get back to work,” he says, resolving to try to spend more of his lunches with Hermione if he can.

At the end of his shift, Harry steps out into the lobby only to notice a rather rowdy crowd of his former schoolmates collecting near the Floos.

“Harry!” Seamus calls out.

It’s clearly the group from the Auror Academy—Seamus, Parvati, Neville, and Rosier. Hermione is with them as well.

“Hey,” Harry says, crossing over to join them, trying to ignore the way heads are turning all across the crowded atrium thanks to Seamus’ less-than-subtle way of catching his attention.

“We’re going out for a pint,” Seamus says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Want to join?”

Harry glances at Hermione. “Ron’s said he’ll join us there,” she says.

“Sure,” Harry says.

Instead of heading for the Leaky, they actually walk down to a darker, noisier pub called the Hippogriff and Thestral. It’s further off the main path, and a bit seedier too, but the clientele is younger, and Harry feels less like he’s got a million pairs of eyes on him. All the people here seem more intent on getting pissed or hooking up.

Ron is already there with Dean, waving them over to a corner booth.

“Well, don’t you all look like some responsible contributors to our glorious Ministry,” he says, raising a glass.

“Shut it, Weasley, and get me a pint,” Seamus groans, collapsing into Dean’s side.

Ron laughs. “Long week?”

They all let out grumbles. The next hour passes in comfortable conversation about various things having nothing to do with work as they navigate their way through a couple rounds of drinks. Harry is very content to let the conversation flow over him, relieved to not have to be constantly scrambling to keep up for once.

“So, Harry,” Parvati asks. “What’s it like down in the Department of Mysteries?”

“Mysterious,” Harry automatically says, everyone groaning in complaint.

“Get to do anything exciting?” Dean presses.

“Honestly, I spend a lot of time fetching things,” Harry admits. “I’ve learnt the tea preferences of the entire department.”

Neville nods, like maybe he’s pretty familiar with similar tasks.

“And writing papers,” Ron interjects. “I swear he studies more now than he did his entire stay at Hogwarts.”

Harry nods. “Finally figured out how to use a quill and everything.”

They laugh.

Ron glances over at Neville. “At least you lot are probably doing things.”

Seamus groans, hand going to his forehead in a dramatic gesture.

“You’d be surprised,” Neville says.

“What?” Ron asks.

“It’s almost like being back in Umbridge’s class,” Parvati confirms.

Neville nods. “Apparently all we do for the first six months is study law cases. We’re paired up with Hermione’s group.”

“More tests?” Ron asks, sounding horrified.

“You can’t enforce the law until you know the letter of it!” Parvati recites as if by rote.

“Well,” Hermione says with some asperity, “they aren’t wrong. It makes sense that we would first have to understand the law before we can administer it.”

The Auror trainees all share looks, Neville turning his face into his glass, clearly too polite to say something he’s tempted to.

“And how many arguments has Hermione picked already?” Ron asks, putting an arm around her shoulders and looking endlessly proud.

“Oh my god, so many,” Parvati says with a smile.

Hermione’s lips press together. “Some of the laws are _barbaric_ , the way they’re written,” she says. “Ginny wrote to me, a few weeks back, asking about squib property rights. I had no idea how poorly they are treated under the law!”

It’s the same manic glint Harry’s seen in her eye many times. SPEW, the house rivalries and Quidditch, Umbridge’s terrible teaching.

“How is Ginny doing?” Neville interjects, clearly keen to move the conversation along, like maybe he’s already heard this many times.

Ron shakes his head. “Barely seen her this last week. She’s up and out of the house before dawn and back late, usually just long enough to eat half the house and then collapse into bed.”

Harry knows this isn’t an exaggeration. Having spent the entire week at the combined British and Irish Quidditch League exposition days up in Yorkshire, she’s barely had the energy to write to him, let alone sneak out to meet him. But if she can catch Ballycastle’s eye, which he has no doubt she will, she’ll then get a chance to go to Ireland for tryouts. It’s the first step.

Rosier snorts. “Those League Days are a killer. Vaisey said they’re kicking his butt, no matter how much most people try to say they’re just a publicity stunt.”

“Why would people say that?” Neville asks.

Rosier shrugs. “Because they’re open, meaning anyone can go. Some think that makes them a joke, the league just trying to _appear_ open to finding talent anywhere when it’s still pretty nepotistic and all about who knows who. The last few years have disrupted a lot of that though; people in hiding, continental boycott of the league. Vaisey said there’s a lot of people there. And all the teams sent observers, which is unusual. There’s some pretty stiff competition.”

Ron scoffs. “Well, it would serve her right, not getting a spot after brushing off the Harpies.”

“I wouldn’t count Ginny out,” Parvati says.

Seamus nods, face uncharacteristically serious. “It’s not like she ever does anything halfway.”

Rosier looks down at his drink, looking vaguely uncomfortable as Neville, Seamus, and Parvati share a look. It’s clear this is about that year with the Carrows.

“I’m sure she’ll come out on top,” Neville says bracingly. “Never seen her fall short when she sets her mind to something.”

A heavy silence falls over the group, Ron frowning.

Parvati stands. “Next round is my shout. Who’s in?”

“Definitely,” Seamus says, the rest of them starting to rattle off orders.

Harry just shakes his head, gesturing at his still half-full ale.

Ron leans into Harry, voice low as their friends once again start laughing and talking. “Do you ever feel like we’re missing something? When they get to talking about that year?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. But maybe, he considers, noticing the way Dean is watching Seamus, they’re better off not knowing.

* * *

Ginny has never been so sore in her entire life. It’s not just her muscles either. If a brain can be bruised, she would say it is. Not from taking Bludgers to the head, but from thinking and building strategies and stressing.

Sitting in the Burrow on the first day after the end of the open League Days, she’s jumping at every sound, getting up to peer out the windows for any sign of an approaching owl. Unfortunately it’s Sunday, meaning there will soon be far too many people about, making her even more anxious. She can just imagine all the sidelong looks and bracing smiles from her family.

For all people like to brush off the League Days as a joke, they’d been intense and well-attended. People her age, but also many older players with more experience and even some from abroad. To her eye, there had been dozens of chasers with real skill, Vaisey one among them.

She’d been cool and collected at the time, focusing on doing what needed to be done, but now she’s left with nothing but waiting and the doubt is starting to creep in. As exhausted as she is, she’s still having a hard time sleeping, her nerves jangling no matter how pointless it is. She’s already done absolutely everything she can. There is nothing left to do but wait.

It’s excruciating.

She’s in the sitting room failing to read a _Witch Weekly_ when an owl arrives.

Her father looks up from his paper as it flies in through the window to land next to Ginny. It holds its leg out and she takes the folded parchment. It flies off again, Ginny taking a steadying breath before flipping the missive open.

“Ginny?” her father asks.

“Kenmare,” she says. “They’ve invited me to try for a spot.”

“Well done, dear,” Arthur says, smiling proudly at her.

She nods. Kenmare is a fine team. Getting an invitation from any professional team is a feat. But it’s not Ballycastle. It’s not Moran.

Ginny doesn’t just want to be a professional Chaser anywhere she can get. She isn’t risking _everything_ for mediocre. She wants to be the absolute best Chaser she can possibly be. And she certainly isn’t going to live in Ireland away from everyone for _Kenmare_.

There is no halfway here.

After a while, she can’t handle her parents’ eyes on her anymore, trying to pretend she isn’t agitated. Not to mention her brothers will doubtlessly start showing up soon. She escapes up into her room.

When the first sounds of her brothers arriving starts to echo through the house, there still hasn’t been any sign of an owl from Ballycastle.

“They say a watched owl never arrives.”

Ginny glances back over her shoulder to see Harry standing in her doorway. She doesn’t turn around, arms still clenched over her chest as she stands in front of her window. “Who says that?”

He shuts the door behind him with a soft click. “Okay. Probably no one.”

He shouldn’t be up here. It’s a big risk with so many people in the house. “I know what you’re trying to do,” she says, biting down her lip in an attempt to keep her emotions under control, even as her voice betrays her.

He crosses over to her, his hands warm on her shoulders, kneading gently before sliding down her arms. “It’ll come.”

He sounds so sure.

“And if it doesn’t?” She tells herself she isn’t being pessimistic, just preparing for all outcomes.

“Then they’re blind, and you’re well clear of them. It also means I get to take great pleasure in watching you kick their arses as a Kenmare Kestral.”

Her father must be telling them all about the earlier owl. She imagines them all down there, talking about her. She can’t face it.

She closes her eyes. “Would you just…stay with me for a bit?”

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. “Of course.”

She leans back against him and waits.

Harry lingers as long as he dares, but as dinner nears there is still no sign of an owl. He heads down first, Ginny waiting until her mum has shouted up at her twice to finally come down.

Her brothers quickly realize there is no room for teasing Ginny today, her temper in no mood to put up with it. For once they show tact, keeping up a steady stream of conversation around her, but not forcing her to participate.

Halfway through the meal an owl sweeps in the window, the table falling silent. It lands in front of Ginny, impatiently wagging its leg at her. It’s only once it knocks over the gravy that Ginny finally reaches for the missive.

She barely registers the owl’s departure, her fingers running over the seal on the parchment. A bat blazoned in burgundy wax. Without thinking, she glances up at Harry, and he gives her an encouraging nod.

She refuses to admit that her fingers are shaking as she cracks the seal, unfolding the paper.

_Dear Ms. Weasley, we are pleased to invite you to the Ballycastle Bats training days and trials beginning October the 4t_ _h_ _._

She looks up at everyone and smiles.

* * *

“Do you have any questions, Harry?”

He looks up from the thick file in front of him to see Amelia standing over him. He is barely halfway through the information, and feels like he probably understands even less. Still, instead of asking her to clarify the thrust of the research they are about to go observe in real time, he finds himself asking another question.

“What happened to Mabel?”

He’s seen her name on a few files, notices the way everyone refuses to talk about it or quickly changes the subject. It’s clearly more than someone just dropping out.

Amelia looks around, as if to check that neither Roman nor Circe are near. “She disappeared.”

“Here?” He gets the sense that things around here are even more dangerous than Hogwarts, and that was saying something, really.

“No, it wasn’t like that,” she says, not like no one ever disappears, but like it was something even more strange and unusual.

Some days Harry cannot even begin to understand this place.

“What was it like?” he asks.

Amelia bites her lip. “She was a muggleborn.”

Harry feels his stomach clench.

Amelia shakes her head. “I guess we all thought she was safe, being down here. But she disappeared all the same. Two months after things…changed.”

‘Changed’ as in Voldemort took over the Ministry.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says.

“Not your fault,” she says. She gives him a brief smile. “After all, it might still be like that now without you, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Harry says. He’s more interested in the opening he’s been given to ask the question he’s wondered since the first day. “Were many people down here implemented in the trials last summer?”

“With supporting the Dark Lord?” she asks. “No. Of course not.”

“Why not?”

She looks back at him like he’s missing something obvious. “The Department of Mysteries was neutral in the war.”

“Neutral?” Harry asks. How could anyone be neutral?

“What she means, Potter, is that knowledge is a higher calling. Far above politics and short-sighted grasping for worldly power.”

They both look up to find Circe frowning down at them.

“Now I assume you’re all finished reading the informational packet. It’s time to go.”

Amelia’s cheeks are flushed slightly, but before she moves away, she leans towards Harry. “You’re an Unspeakable for life,” she says in an undertone.

She strides off then, the rest of the apprentices eager to finally get to enter a lab space, to watch an experiment happen.

Harry has not finished the informational ‘packet’—more like tome—but gathers that the Unspeakable Roman is serving as research assistant to is working on amplifying magical power through the use of various substances, apparently not content with the current strength of most wand cores. The nuances of the research are rather lost on him beyond that. Though he’s beginning to suspect the other apprentices are just better at hiding it than he is, rather than them understanding more.

They all budge around in the stone room, a large wooden table spanning the middle length, some sort of water trough running along the forward edge of it. An Unspeakable in pale lavender robes stands at one end in front of an enormous chalkboard. A few bewitched pieces of chalk are already moving across the board. Set to record data measured by various spells set up by Roman, Harry knows.

“Alright, alright, hush now,” the Unspeakable says, even though no one is speaking.

Harry goes around to the other side of the table with Lucas to make room for everyone to fit inside. On the table are various stones and jars with substances Harry couldn’t even begin to take a guess about.

With some very complicated spellwork, each object on the table is slowly enveloped in an aura, light of various colors glowing brightly or dimly, depending on the substance. Harry feels the hairs on his arms rise in reaction to the latent magics in the air, the pieces of chalk working manically to record data about each attempt.

It’s pretty cool to actually see in real measurement the magical vitality of the various cores, making the invisible presence actually visible. Plus, the colors are kinda pretty.

“And here,” the Unspeakable says, “what you are really here for. My newest discovery.”

This time, as the object at the very middle of the table begins to glow, it immediately feels different, no gentle static in the air but something much, much stronger.

Everyone is staring at the board, riveted by the data being collected. But Harry isn’t paying it any attention, his eyes instead on the object because it’s starting to look a lot less cool.

He nudges Lucas next to him.

“What?” he snaps, clearly not liking to be distracted.

Harry is undeterred. “Is it supposed to be doing that?”

Lucas glances disinterestedly in the direction he indicates, eyes already back on the data. A moment later, though, Lucas turns more fully, his eyes widening.

“Roman,” Harry says, the look on Lucas’ face more than enough to confirm his suspicions.

The older apprentice turns to look, just in time for the aura to let off some sort of pulse, jagged streams of magical energy arcing out of the object, something like miniature lightning that strikes the ceiling with thunderous impact.

A few people scream, most dropping down as another bolt hits the back wall. The Unspeakable heads straight towards the object, his wand lifted, and a particularly large stream strikes him straight in the chest. Harry barely has time to see him crumple to the ground in convulsions before he throws himself at Lucas, shoving him out of the way just as another bolt hits a case behind them, glass shattering.

Recovering, Harry peers up over the table. No one seems to be doing anything other than ducking and staring in horror like they _want_ to get struck or something.

“Out!” Harry roars, pulling his wand and throwing up a shield in hopes that it might be able to hold against the continuing stream of magic crackling indiscriminately around the space. He feels his arm nearly buckle under the pressure of one of the bolts striking his shield.

Amelia puts up a shield as well, shooing the transfixed apprentices out the door. Circe remains next to Roman, shield cast, wincing as it’s impacted.

“Can you get him?” Roman shouts to her, gesturing at the still prone and convulsing Unspeakable.

Circe half levitates, half drags the Unspeakable out of the room as Roman protects her.

“And us?” Lucas says, still huddling behind Harry.

With the table blocking them in, Harry isn’t sure they’re going to be able to get out. Not until that thing is somehow turned off or whatever.

With everyone else clear of the room, Roman does a rather complicated set of wand movements. Nothing seems to happen.

“There’s too much interference,” Circe says, rejoining him, even as the two of them are forced further and further back.

The object has started humming now.

“What do I do?” Harry asks, already realizing that he’s closest.

Lucas makes a sound of protest, but Harry ignores him.

Roman regards him for a moment. “The water bath,” he says, gesturing at the trough-like thing on the other side of the table from Harry.

Yes, of course. Water has a dampening effect, he recalls from his reading.

“Lucas,” Harry says, and he nods, not looking particularly happy about it, but casting a shield to protect the both of them.

Harry drops his aching arm, shaking it a moment before trying to charm the object off the table. Nothing seems to be able to penetrate the haze of magics.

“Magic isn’t going to work,” Roman shouts.

“Of course not,” Harry mutters, casting another shield, trying to ignore the way it weakens with each impact. He starts to move closer and closer, the magical bolts getting stronger as he approaches. 

He tightens his jaw against the pain as small bolts strike his leg—weakened by his shield, but not stopped completely.

When he’s close enough to be within reach of the table, he kicks out his foot, the table shuddering under the impact, but holding firm. He kicks out again even as his shield weakens further and he feels another sharp impact of pain on his shoulder. His foot strikes the edge of the table once, twice, three times, finally rocking up, the whole mess of objects sliding into the vat of water.

With a giant splash, the glowing orb disappears under the surface, the flashes of magic sputtering and finally fizzing out.

The entire lab falls into silence, the air seeming to lighten and thin, nothing but the sound of sloshing water, heavy breathing, and the continuing scratch of chalk on the board.

A moment later Goldhorn comes careening into the space, looking slightly disheveled as she rushes into view.

Harry leans back against the wall, chest heaving. “Well,” he says, looking at Lucas still sprawled back on the floor. “That was fun. Let’s never do it again.”

Lucas lets out a slightly hysterical laugh, and in no time at all the space is swarming with people running diagnostic spells and loudly debating the data on the board.

Hours later, Harry is packing up to go home when Goldhorn shows up at his desk, dropping a thick stack of parchment onto it.

“Someone’s had a look at you?” she asks brusquely.

“I’m fine,” Harry says. It’s just a few superficial burns, after all. He’s had far worse. He gestures at the parchment. “What’s this?”

“Safety protocols.”

“Okay,” he says. That might have been more helpful a few hours ago.

“Look them over carefully. I want two feet on exactly how this accident happened.”

Harry sighs, dragging his hand through his hair. “Is this punishment?”

The Unspeakable, once he regained consciousness, had moaned about the state of his lab, like Harry had willfully destroyed it or something. “My research!” he wailed.

Harry thinks he should be happy to still be bloody alive.

Goldhorn looks affronted, like being set an essay by her is an honor he isn’t being properly grateful for. “Let’s just say you’ve finally made yourself interesting.”

Harry’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Have I?”

She walks off without any more explanation, seemingly more talking to herself than him, “Someone should have thought to bring one of your kind down here ages ago.”

Harry isn’t particularly sure what she means by ‘his kind’ but she’s already out the door and on to other things, so he doesn’t get a chance to ask, even if he wanted to.

Much later that night, Harry is far out in the Burrow’s orchard with Ginny, his thoughts far more pleasantly occupied as she sits on his lap.

“What happened here?” she asks.

Harry glances down at the red welt running across his shoulder. He should have thought of that before he let her unbutton his shirt halfway down his chest, but in his defense, he wasn’t exactly thinking about work at the time.

“Nothing,” Harry says, leaning in to run his mouth along her collarbone. He’s not trying to distract her as much as refusing to be derailed from his current focus.

Ginny breathes out, her body arching towards his. “Hardly looks like nothing,” she says after a moment.

Even if her voice isn’t completely steady, Harry is still a bit offended by her ability to multitask at a time like this. “The DoM is pretty much as volatile as one would expect with that many Ravenclaw-types all shoved in together and only half paying attention to what they’re doing at any given time.”

Ginny lets out a huff of amusement. “That sounds terrifying,” she says, and he wonders if she’s remembering the kinds of things that are kept down there.

“Nothing even exploded,” he assures her. Though that very well may have happened, given a few more minutes.

Ginny’s fingers rub at the back of his neck. “Do you ever wonder if you’re the reason things explode or if you just always happen to be there when it happens?”

Harry pulls back, brow furrowed, only to find Ginny grinning at him, mischief in her eyes as she bites on her lower lip.

“I’ve got enough of a complex without you adding to it,” he complains.

She laughs, drawing him back in and kissing him thoroughly.

“I’m going to miss you,” she says, fingers tightening on his back.

It’s the other thing he is consciously trying not to think about tonight—the fact that she leaves for Ireland in the morning. 

“You’ll be back before we know it,” he says.

It goes unspoken that if everything goes the way she hopes, she’ll be in Ireland indefinitely. He can feel it, the way it worries her. He doesn’t want her carrying that with her, to be anything less than completely focused on her dream. They can figure everything else out later.

“At least you’ll have your broom to keep you company,” Harry says, trying to sound suggestive but probably just sounding like a git.

Ginny’s eyes widen in shock before she starts laughing.

“And what will you have to keep you company?” she asks, winding her arms around his neck.

He looks at her, hair tousled, lips slightly swollen, eyes bright with amusement and affection. “This right here.”

“Well, then,” she says, shimmying closer. “I suppose we should make sure it’s a particularly good memory.”

She holds to her promise.

* * *

Ginny leans low over her broom, her nose nearly touching the wood, her old Cleansweep vibrating more and more erratically the faster she pushes it. A Bludger flings in from her left and she dives down, just in time to hear the _whizz_ of one approaching on her rear, barely dodging it with a quick roll to the side.

She rights herself, reorienting her broom towards the finish line, seeing it looming just ahead.

 _Almost there_ , she thinks, _just a few more seconds_.

In her eagerness, she leans closer, pushing her broom past its limits, and almost immediately pays for it when she gets a Bludger straight to the face, her broom too tapped out to respond to her command. Orange paint explodes in a cloud, splattering her face and hair.

 _Fuck_ , she thinks, wiping paint from her eyes after she crosses the line a moment later. It stings, but is still far better than a real Bludger to the head. If it had been a real one rather than a practice version, she’d doubtlessly be plunging towards the pitch in an unconscious heap.

Ginny joins the rest of the hopeful players where they lounge in various states of paint-splattered exhaustion. She’s still trying to blink the paint out of her eyes, pulling her wand and casting an impatient Scourgify charm that is, upon reflection, a really terrible idea.

“Bugger,” she says, eyes watering.

“Funny,” someone nearby says, “I can’t even tell she got hit by paint, she’s already so damn orange.”

It isn’t meant to be nasty, Ginny knows. But as the days turn into weeks, the goal growing ever closer, the competition has gotten tighter and tighter, and friendly camaraderie has begun to splinter into brittleness as they all battle out for the coveted spots.

“Well,” Ginny says, vision finally clear enough to see Orwent where he’s sprawled back on the grass, face etched with exhaustion and annoyance. “I suppose if I’d gone for the full rainbow like you did, it would be easier to see.”

He’s covered in at least four different hues, speaking to a far less successful run of the gauntlet than Ginny. He’s easily four years older and nearly a foot taller, but he’s learned by now that neither of those statistics are going to make Ginny take any shite from him.

“Fuck off,” he says without any real heat, collapsing back and closing his eyes.

Only three more people are left to run the course. Ginny sits down next to her roommate. They get along, mostly because they aren’t out for the same position, Sorcha going out for Keeper.

“Bloody Bludgers,” she moans.

Ginny nods. She’d known coming in that everything at the professional level is faster—the play, but also the Bludgers and Snitches. It’s becoming clear that her old broom may no longer have what she needs. But it isn’t a broom that is going to get her there her or keep her out. That is all on her.

“That’ll be it for today,” one of the trainers shouts down at them after the last person makes it through the gauntlet.

It’s early to be done, and that might seem like a gift, as exhausted as they are, but more likely it only means it’s time for another round of cuts. Orwent lets out a string of curses even Ron would have found impressive, probably horrified to have cuts on a day he clearly didn’t fly his best.

Sorcha and Ginny just look at each other, exchanging stiff nods of luck at one another. There have already been three rounds of cuts, and after this one, there will probably only be one more before the current reserve players show up to battle it out. Then more eliminations, and if you somehow make it that far, the starting players come in for the final week as team management looks for exasperatingly nebulous things like ‘fit’ and ‘balance’.

All of which she might not be so clear on if she hadn’t forced George to get her a chance to sit down with Oliver Wood, who had very enthusiastically talked her through the general trial process. Ginny will take any advantage she can.

The players peel themselves up off the ground with various groans and curses and complaints and head slowly back towards the bunkhouse and the promise of showers.

The Bats staff seem to be doing their best to push them all to their limits, both to see what their limits are and how they react to them no doubt. Ginny quickly noticed a pattern: people who lose their shite, who throw things or break equipment or try to get physical with other players off the field, disappear quick. Other shows of temper seem more tolerated, even people arguing with the training staff, so long as it remains centered on Quidditch and not personal attacks.

“A little fire is a good thing,” one of the assistant coaches said once.

Ginny keeps her temper firmly under control, preferring to leave it all out on the field.

“I think I could sleep for a week,” Sorcha says.

Ginny nods in agreement.

“Brennan,” one of the coaches shouts.

Ginny freezes as he strides up towards them. Oh Merlin.

“Move along, Weasley,” he says gruffly, clearly having no interest in talking to her.

Ginny feels a swoop of relief, even as she realizes what this means for Sorcha.

Sure enough, Ginny comes back from the showers to find Sorcha throwing her things in a bag.

She doesn’t manage to wish Ginny luck or anything, and she can’t really blame her for that.

Once she’s gone, Ginny pulls out her parchment and writes, _Made it through another cut._

She crawls up under her covers and passes out, waking around dinnertime to a message from Harry.

_Never had any doubt._

Ginny sighs, letting Harry’s adorable certainty wash over her. She picks up her quill. _This is unbelievably grueling and painful and a thousand times harder than I ever imagined it could be._

 _And you are loving every moment of it,_ Harry replies.

She huffs under her breath. _Yes, I am._

She stares down at his words, the wonky little way he makes his ‘g’s.

 _I miss you_ , she writes, needing him to know just how much it means to have him to talk with at the end of another draining day. How the only thing that could be better is actually having him here.

 _If I don’t see you soon, I think I’ll go mad,_ he says.

 _My bunkmate has just rather conveniently been cut,_ she writes as if the loss of her one friendly companion doesn’t cut deep. This, at least, could be the silver lining. _You should come see me._

_Aren’t you forbidden from having people in the bunkhouse?_

_Well, first of all, since when have you cared about rules?_

_I care about rules that might get you cut from the team._

_You do have that lovely cloak of yours. Are you saying you don’t think you could sneak in? You? Harry I-rode-a-dragon-out-of-Gringotts?_

_To be fair, I think someone would notice a dragon. Even in Ireland._

Despite his self-professed need to see her, Harry doesn’t seem to want to be convinced, far too worried about getting her in trouble. It would almost be adorable if it weren’t so annoying.

Still, she doesn’t push. Fortunately the only thing stronger than his stupid noble streak is his impetuousness, meaning he only manages to control himself for an entire twenty-four hours.

 _In the hall_ , is all the message from him says.

Ginny looks up from her parchment, looking around the small common room connecting all of the bunkrooms that she is currently sitting in. There are only four women left when originally there had been a dozen. Hillard and Gozel are playing a lazy game of cards at the one small table, Brightman seemingly asleep in an armchair.

Ginny shifts in her seat, glancing at the door to the suite. “Did anyone hear a knock?”

Brightman opens one eye, glancing over at her. “What? No.”

“Are you sure?” Ginny gets up and opens the door to the hall, holding it wide open as she regards the seemingly empty space. “Huh, I could have sworn…”

“Good news for us, Weasley’s gone barkers.”

Hillard and Gozel let out cheers.

Ginny rolls her eyes, leaving the door gaping open for another long moment until she feels the soft brush of someone passing nearby. She shuts the door.

“Well,” she says, “I’m going to take my barmy arse to bed. I’m beat.”

“Night,” they chorus.

Ginny crosses over to her room, opening the door and leaving it standing open as she goes back to the table where she left her wand. She picks it up, shaking her head like she can’t believe how forgetful she is.

Back in her room, she barely shuts the door behind her before Harry is pulling the cloak off and kissing her.

“Merlin, I’ve missed you,” he says.

Ginny manages to gather her wits enough to shush him. She casts a few spells, sealing the door and soundproofing the room.

Tossing her wand carelessly aside, she turns back to him. “You were saying?”

He smiles, leaning down and kissing her again, only this one softer and more intent, and he pulls back after a moment, as if just to look at her.

“You didn’t have any problems getting in?” she asks, hands already eagerly touching him, as if really wanting to know that he’s here.

He shakes his head. “There was only one ward, but I managed to get past it without disabling it.”

“No dragon guarding my tower?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

“No,” he says, hands on her waist as he pulls her closer. “But I would have found a way around that too.”

She has no doubt that he would.

“Hi,” she says, winding her arms around his neck.

“How are you?” he asks.

As much as she wants to talk to him, just to be near him, there is also this persistent buzz under her skin, a powerful need for him to follow through with everything that first furious kiss seemed to promise. She tugs gently at the ends of his hair. “Tired and sore and…very lonely.”

She’d feel ridiculous for the pathetic innuendo if Harry didn’t immediately press closer, her back coming to a stop against the door. “Can I help with that?”

“Merlin, I hope so,” she breathes.

He grins, leaning closer, only to stop right before kissing her. He frowns as if remembering something.

“What?” she asks.

“I should send a letter to the team so they can fix the way I got in. Anonymously, of course.”

Ginny smiles at him, something about his serious expression and concern making the itch in her fingers even worse. It’s nice to see him so clearly in his element—breaking rules and protecting everyone around him.

It just makes her want to snog him senseless all the more.

“Tomorrow,” she says, voice low.

He refocuses on her, his eyes dropping to her lips. “Tomorrow,” he agrees.

And then they are both shifting, lips meeting, bodies pressing close. A strange tension seems to thrum between them—the weeks apart, the stress and exhausting highs and lows of her training, how much she’s just missed having him here, all the times she’s imagined him here touching her just like this.

It’s no mad rush though, even as they seem to be trying to make up for lost time, both of them perfectly content to take their time as clothing falls away and they move back towards the bed. For once not a cautious, quick outdoors tryst. 

All this time and privacy is not a luxury they have had in a while, even before Ginny came to Ireland. Harry sets about taking advantage of that, as Ginny settles herself on his lap, knees braced on either side of his hips. She has the fleeting thought that it’s hard to believe it’s only been a few weeks since he first dared slide a hand up under her skirt, fingers fumbling and nervous as he asked her to show him how to touch her.

He has taken to his lessons very, very well. Well enough that she doesn’t have time to wonder at it, finding exactly the kind of contact she’s been craving more and more and isn’t interested in pretending otherwise.

“You have become far too good at that,” she says once she can, the words tumbling out before she can stop them.

But Harry only smiles against her shoulder, one hand skimming up her bare back. “Is that a complaint?”

“Not in the slightest,” she says, recovering enough to shift further up on the bed, lying back and pulling him down after her. She slides her hands down into his pants and now he’s the one cursing, no attention left for flirty banter as she thoroughly returns the favor, his mouth warm and fervent on hers.

“God,” he says, forehead resting against hers as he attempts to catch his breath. “I think I was pretty lonely too.”

She smiles, fingers trailing up and down his arms. “I feel we’re maybe abusing the euphemism at this point.”

He turns his face into her neck. “Fine, then I missed being with you,” he says, her skin prickling against the feel of his breath against her skin, the way his hips press into hers, but really just his words—the way he sounds like he refuses to be embarrassed by it either.

She lets out an unsteady breath. “Me too.”

His arms tighten around her.

After a quick set of charms and a lazy reclaiming of some of their clothes, they end up lying together, Ginny resting on Harry’s chest. She’s trying not to, but feels herself drifting off. She’s just so tired and he’s so warm and she hasn’t felt this relaxed in a long while.

Her body jerks, like she’s caught herself missing a step. “I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head in an attempt keep herself awake.

His hand slides up and down her back, and that does nothing to dispel the warm, cozy feeling. “You need your sleep,” he says, voice low and quiet in the dark of the room. “I’m just happy to be here.”

“Going to watch me sleep?”

“Maybe,” he teases.

She lets out a laugh that is really more of a yawn, her eyes feeling impossibly heavy.

“Or I can get out of here,” he says. “You know, leave you to your rest.”

She opens her eyes, feeling a jolt in her stomach. “You took a portkey?”

“Yeah. It’s not set to return until the morning. Early enough that I can make it to the Ministry in time for my shift.”

It’s one of the convenient things about international portkeys—while your arrival has to be the country’s main transportation hub, you can leave from pretty much anywhere if there aren’t particular barriers in the way. Meaning he had to arrive in Belfast, but can leave directly from her room if the wards won’t interfere. Of course, they’re also bloody expensive.

She lifts her head. “Then of course you should just stay. Where else are you going to go?”

He seems to study her face for a moment. “I didn’t want to assume…”

“Well, you should have. I am not wasting any of our time together. I am wide-awake. Really.” She settles back against his chest, the unpleasant rush of adrenaline fading now that she knows he’s going to stay.

“So noted,” he says, squeezing her gently even as his body seems to noticeably relax.

She has no idea how much time has passed when she’s jerking awake.

“Sorry,” Harry says, wincing. He finishes pulling his arm free from under her. “I kind of lost feeling in it.” He shakes it like he’s fighting pins and needles.

“Sorry,” she says, trying to move over to give him more room, but the bed isn’t exactly large. “Bit of a tight fit.”

“Do you want me to?” he asks, gesturing at the bed recently vacated by Sorcha.

They’ve never done anything like this, spending the night together.

“No,” she says, hands tightening on his arms. “I mean, unless you want to.”

“I don’t,” he says.

She smiles. “Good.”

He smiles down at her, brushing her hair back from her face. “You say that now. Wait until you discover that I talk in my sleep.”

“Do you really?”

“No,” he says. “I mean, not anymore. I don’t think.”

She doesn’t have to ask since when.

They shift around until they find a position that works for them but probably won’t lead to dead limbs.

It should be weird, sleeping with someone else in her bed. And it is, to some extent. Just to bump up against someone else, to wake when Harry rolls over in the middle of the night.

She wouldn’t trade one moment of it.

The next morning she wakes to him curled around her, his chest pressed against her back and his legs tangled with hers.

“For the record,” Harry murmurs against the back of her neck, “you’re a blanket thief.”

Her mouth opens in outrage. “I am no such thing.”

He nods. “And a bed hog. I nearly got shoved to the floor more than once.”

Her cheeks burn. “You could have taken the other bed.”

“Not a chance,” he says. “You’d have to do a lot worse than that to get rid of me.”

“Promise?” she can’t help but ask.

He pulls her over so he can see her face and leans down and kisses her.

She only has half a second to think about things like morning breath or how disastrous she much look, because this is something she could very much get used to waking up to every day.

Harry pulls back, slightly breathless and fingers already playing with the hem of her shirt. “How much time do you have?”

She glances at the bedside clock. “At least twenty minutes. Thirty if I skip breakfast.”

He smiles. “No need for you to starve.”

He kisses his way down her throat, and she thinks starving might just be worth it.

* * *

Harry blearily walks into Grimmauld Place, missing the hook with his cloak but not caring enough to pick it up.

The last week he’s been stuck on weird night shifts, which he might assume is Mintumble sticking him with the worst schedule out of general peevishness, especially since the particular scholar he’s been shadowing seems to be highly accident-prone.

Harry notices five spectacularly stupid breaches of safety protocols the first evening alone. After a while he starts to wonder if this is instead more directly related to his proving ‘interesting’ to Goldhorn.

And so he spends his nights keeping the scholar from bumbling into catastrophes or starving. It really boils down to being a herder of cats. Challenging, yes, but not particularly interesting, the general thrust of the research being well beyond Harry’s understanding. Of course, then there are the inevitable moments when his instincts start screaming and he knows something is about to go very wrong, and he stops thinking and just starts acting. Those are the moments the adrenaline starts pumping and everything makes far more sense.

All meaning that Harry isn’t sure if he’s relieved that he will be starting his first round of seminar courses next week, or just disappointed.

He’s gotten home just as Hermione is getting up to start her day, the two of them passing each other blearily on the stairs with barely a word exchanged.

Upstairs he takes a quick shower and pulls on whatever clean clothes he can find before falling groggily into bed.

To judge from the clock by his bed, he’s been asleep for maybe five hours when a noise downstairs wakes him. It sounds like Hermione calling his name, but she’s likely been gone for hours. He lifts his head and can hear footsteps on the stairs and then someone calling his name again, only it isn’t Hermione.

“Ginny?” Harry says, sitting up.

After little more than a brisk knock, Ginny pushes open his door. Despite the unexpectedness of her arrival—she should still be in Ireland after all—she doesn’t look panicked so much as radiantly excited about something.

Harry takes a nervous look around the room, wishing he had done a slightly better job keeping things neat.

“I’m in,” she announces.

Harry blinks at her. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m in,” she repeats, practically vibrating with excitement as she crosses over to the bed. “I’m on the reserve squad. I am going to train with Fianna Moran!” Kicking off her shoes, she does a little twirl and then falls back on the bed, staring up at the canopy as if she can’t believe her life. “Fianna. Moran.”

“Ginny,” Harry says, sleep finally burning away. “That’s amazing!”

She gazes up at him. “Can I admit now that I wasn’t really sure I could do it?”

“I knew you could,” he says.

She bounces back up to her knees. “Liar,” she laughs. “You all thought I was a nutter.”

He grins, dragging her into a tight hug. “Never.”

She kisses him, and they tumble down onto the bed, laughing as they go.

“Ginny Weasley,” he says, touching her face. “Chaser for the Ballycastle Bats.”

She opens her mouth, shaking her head like she can’t reconcile his words. “I still can’t believe it.”

“I can,” Harry says, filled with fierce pride for how brave she is, to go after her dream without apology and work tirelessly until she made it happen. “You’re amazing.”

She presses a playful kiss to his lips, eyes bright with emotion. “You, Harry Potter, may be a little biased.”

“Not a chance,” he says. “Your parents must be just as proud.”

She’s quiet a moment, a fleeting emotion crossing her face too quickly for him to catch, and then she’s shaking her head. “They don’t know yet. I came straight here. I wanted you to be the first person to know.”

He feels something well up in him, pulling her down to kiss her, his fingers finding the strip of skin just above her waistband, Ginny shifting down against him in response.

Merlin, he’s missed her, it having been another long ten days since he snuck over to Ireland to see her.

“What do you want to do to celebrate?” he forces himself to ask before he can get too carried away. “We can go down to that Muggle pub. Get pissed.”

She takes his face in her hands, her eyes luminous in a way that makes his stomach twist with anticipation. “I can think of another way I’d rather celebrate,” she says, hand trailing down his chest to find the edge of his shirt, dragging it up.

“Yeah?” he asks, _definitely_ not opposed to the idea.

“And look,” she says, lightly bouncing her knees on the mattress. “We are already so conveniently located.”

It seems a simple innuendo, except there is something searching in her gaze as she looks at him, as if waiting for him to catch up.

“Wait,” he says. “Are you saying you want to…”

She nods. “Have sex. Yes. We should probably be able to say it if we’re going to be doing it.”

“I can say the word sex,” he says, pushing up on his elbows.

“I’m sorry,” she says, hand smoothing down his chest as she shifts out of the way to let him sit up. “I’m just…I’m ready. But if you’re not, that’s fine. I’m okay waiting. There are plenty of other very fun things to do.”

He’s mostly surprised by the way she has clearly thought a lot about this. Then again, it’s Ginny. She thinks through everything a thousand times before even considering doing it. He’s the impulsive one. But strangely not at the moment. And not because he isn’t ready. There is a very insistent part of his brain yelling at him to stop being so stupid and get on with it.

“That’s not it,” he says.

“Then what?”

He glances around his room, taking in the rumpled bedclothes, his mismatched clothing. When he imagined his first time with Ginny, it hadn’t looked anything like this.

She considers him. “Do I really seem like the kind of girl who needs flowers and candles?”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve them,” he says. “Something…special.”

She smiles at him as if he’s being incredibly sweet and silly all at once. “It’s you, Harry. That’s all the special I need.”

He looks at her, her face still flushed with excitement, eyes bright, feeling his heart thundering away.

She tilts her head as if considering him. “Is that special enough for you?”

“Yes,” he says, not even having to think about it. “It definitely is.”

“Okay,” she breathes out, her shoulders visibly relaxing.

They sort of awkwardly regard each other for a few long moments.

“So, we’re doing this,” he says, just wanting to be clear.

“Not noticeably,” she says, lips twitching. 

Now that isn’t a challenge Harry is willing to let lie, grabbing her waist and pulling her back on top of him.

She smiles down at him, hand on his face. “I’m in if you are.”

“I’m definitely in,” he says, winding his hand in her hair and kissing her.

“Not noticeably,” she mumbles against his lips, shifting suggestively against him, and Harry can’t help but groan in complaint, but Ginny only drops her head to his chest and starts shaking with laughter. Then the two of them are laughing and kissing, and Harry feels like his chest might burst with the warmth of it all as any last weirdness seems to melt away.

The laughter slowly dies off as they become occupied with far more pleasant activities, kisses and touches growing more eager. Unfortunately Harry is quickly rather stymied when it comes to getting access to Ginny’s body. He’s only in a ratty old tee shirt and his pants, but Ginny seems locked away in layers and layers of clothing. Her thick jumper lifts up only to reveal a button up.

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you,” Harry mutters as he fumbles with the buttons only to see yet another shirt under that.

She laughs. “They say anticipation is half the fun.”

As she _finally_ pulls her last shirt up and over her head, Harry’s eye is caught by a fading bruise on her side—mottled purple with a bit of yellow around the edges.

She notices him looking, shrugging it off as nothing, her bra quickly joining the growing pile on his floor. “A few of the reserve Chasers weren’t going to give up without a fight. Or a hard elbow here and there.”

He meets her gaze, filled with such unbearable pride. “They clearly had no idea who they were dealing with.”

She smiles at him, shifting back on her elbows so she can bring her legs around in front. She lifts her foot towards him, pressing her toes into his chest. “Almost there.”

He curls his fingers over the elastic top of her thick woolen sock, pulling one off and then the other. He firmly slides his thumb up the arch of her foot, Ginny letting out a hum of pleasure at the pressure.

Harry finds himself staring at the bright pink polish on each of her toes. “Cute,” he says.

“Thanks,” she says, wiggling her toes. “It helps me remember, spending all that time bashing about in Quidditch leathers.”

“Remember what?”

“That I’m a girl. And that I quite like being one.”

His hand travels up the back of her calf. “I am in absolutely no danger of forgetting,” he says.

She drags her bottom lip into her mouth, eyes bright. “Good.” Then she’s lying back and shimmying out of her leggings, taking her knickers with them.

Harry helps her pull them free of her feet, tossing them carelessly to the side. By this point, he’s seen nearly every part of her, just never all at once. Certainly never like this. But here she lies on his bed in the softly filtered daylight, propped up on one elbow, the look in her eyes the only sign of any uncertainty on her part.

Ripping his own shirt up over his head and tossing it aside, he pushes up on his knees, ignoring the urge to immediately press forward, instead taking his time trailing his hand up the full length of her leg. He leans down, pressing his mouth to her hip and stomach and then higher, fully content to take his time.

She lies back with a sigh, her hand soft in his hair as her back arches in response. He loves that he knows this now, what to do to make her squirm and gasp, and he can’t wait to figure out even more ways to make her feel good. 

Her breathing is definitely unsteady by the time he makes it up to her face, a soft flush covering her chest and neck. He brushes his lips against hers, but she clearly has no more patience for gentle or leisurely. She drags him down closer, deepening the kiss, her hands unerringly finding the exact places that make him noisy and impatient.

She is so warm and soft under him and he can’t stop himself from shifting against her. Ginny’s response is to hook her fingers over the waistband of his pants, fingernails scraping against his hip bones as she eagerly rolls up to meet him. Harry’s entire body feels like it’s humming in response.

He somehow manages to tear his mouth away from hers, sucking in a deep breath in an attempt to clear his head. “Isn’t there—isn’t there something we have to do?”

She blinks at him a moment, her expression hazy. “Right,” she says. “Yes. Of course. There’s a charm.”

Pushing against his chest, she slides out from underneath him, Harry very reluctantly letting go of her.

While she roots around in her clothes on the floor to locate her wand, Harry critically peers around at him room. Reaching for his own wand on the nightstand, he whispers a few spells.

“Okay,” Ginny says. “All taken care of. No little Harrys—”

She turns around and her eyes widen. Lit candles float high up in the canopy. With another flick of his wand, a flower appears in Harry’s hand—rather lopsided and a little wilted, all things told, but still better than nothing, he hopes.

She smiles, leaning one knee on the bed and taking the flower from him, lifting it to her nose. “Perfect.”

He reaches for her hand, drawing her closer, feeling butterflies fluttering in his stomach as he thinks about how much he wants to do this exactly right, how he can’t imagine going through this with anyone else but her, how much he does want it to be absolutely perfect for her.

“Harry,” she says, eyes on his face like she’s somehow reading his thoughts.

He tugs her closer and she folds easily into his embrace, so much bare skin against his that he has no more thoughts left for anything but her.

Of course in reality it is far from perfect, but that’s okay really, both of them breaking into laughter more than once as Harry makes a less than graceful attempt to get himself free of his pants, knocking his head against a candle and nearly setting the bed ablaze.

“Death by romance,” she says with a laugh, so incandescently happy and lovely that any embarrassment on his part almost immediately fades.

It’s almost like a reminder, that they don’t have to do everything perfectly right. They just need to be _them_. It makes it easier when things turn out to be not quite so straightforward as Harry would assume, Ginny stiffening under him with discomfort.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back immediately.

She shakes her head. “Maybe first you could…”

He fumbles for his wand lost somewhere in the covers, tapping it against his hand and casting a quick spell that leaves his skin slick. “This?” he asks, his fingers sliding between her legs.

Ginny closes her eyes, hands lifting above her head to twist in the sheets. “Yes. That.”

He works his fingers inside of her, stretching gently as she pushes back down against him in encouragement. She’s so beautiful like this—hair spread out, neck arched, mouth open, so raw and real and just herself. He can tell she’s close, has learned at least that much at this point, but before she can get there, she bats at his arm.

“I want you to try again,” she says, eyes opening and finding his, something blazingly intense in them as she pulls him closer.

He nods, reaching for his wand and casting the spell on himself this time, the gentle tingle of the spell on his skin nearly sending him over the edge. He takes a moment, pulling himself together and then he’s shifting closer.

It’s much easier this time, but he still tries to be careful, focusing on her reactions and not how amazing it feels. Fortunately she remains relaxed and open under him, no signs of any discomfort as she urges him closer and closer until he is letting out a shuddering breath. Nothing prepares him for it, not just how good it feels, Ginny warm and tight all around him, but how much it _means_. As much as he wants to move, he can’t help stilling, just looking down at her.

She opens her eyes, lips curving in a soft smile when she finds him watching her, her hands sliding up his back. “Harry,” she says, voice thick with something that makes his own throat threaten to close up.

He touches her face, leaning down to kiss her, mouths wide and open against each other, deep and enveloping and familiar, and so unbelievably good. He tries to hold still, to give her time, but Ginny is whispering, “Move,” her hands pressing into his hips.

Every thought of keeping things slow and gentle seems to evaporate as he flexes his hips, pulling back only to press forward again. He turns he face into the side of her head, surrounded by the smell of her hair and her breathing heavy against his neck and he’s just completely lost to the feel of her.

“Ginny,” he grounds out, and her arms tighten around him, her body rolling up to meet him again and again and that’s it, with a few last jerky movements he’s gone, everything blazing out behind his eyes leaving nothing but warmth and softness and how much she means to him.

He lowers himself down, his arms shaking now as he struggles not to put all of weight on her. He somehow manages to slide an arm under her, pulling her tight into him as he tries to breathe but even thinking is too difficult in the moment as his body tries to melt into hers.

He doubts it was very good for her exactly, _knows_ he didn’t last very long, but it was undeniably intimate in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

He feels words and half-formed thoughts burning at his throat, but he isn’t really sure what to say exactly, to let her know everything roiling inside of him. So instead he presses a kiss to her shoulder, her neck, any part of her he can reach without actually having to move, wishing he could somehow press this feeling trying to burst out of him into her skin.

Her back arches in response, fingers pressing into his arms, and he recognizes the tension still thrumming in her body. He finds the energy to roll to the side, just far enough to work his hand between their bodies, fingers pressing close, mapping slow, teasing circles.

Ginny lets out an appreciative groan, reassuring him that she is definitely okay with him making it up to her. He carefully brings her with him, even if just a little late, wanting her to feel everything he did.

Once they are both sweaty and boneless and unable to speak, they lie curled up together, Harry completely wrapped around her. He’s not sure how long they stay like that before Ginny lets out a reluctant sigh, pressing her lips to his shoulder.

She pushes gently at his chest. Harry, getting the hint, shifts so she can scoot out from under him.

“Ginny,” he says, catching her hand before she can get too far.

She stops, looking back at him, their eyes locking. He knows in that moment that he doesn’t have to ask if she’s okay, if that was all right, if she has any regrets. He knows they understand each other perfectly.

She smiles, presses a long lingering kiss to his lips before sliding off the bed, grabbing one of his button ups and wrapping it around herself like a robe.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, slipping out for the loo, he assumes.

It’s possible he dozes off, feeling like he’s floating in utter contentment, because the next thing he knows, she’s coming back, immediately dropping the shirt back to the floor without any hesitation or embarrassment before climbing back in bed with him.

He pulls her up against him, his face lowering to her hair, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent.

“I say we don’t leave this bed for the rest of the day,” she mumbles. 

He brushes a strand of hair back from her cheek, leaning in to gently brush a kiss across her lips. “Deal.”

Groping for the covers, he pulls them up and over them, shutting out the rest of the world.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got rather sultry. Sorry, not sorry.

The Burrow is lit up in the late October dusk when Harry arrives. The whole family minus Charlie is apparently coming to help Ginny celebrate her new position. Even after giving her so much crap for it at the time, Harry imagines they will all pretend like they knew all along that she’d manage to win a spot with the Bats.

To judge from the noise spilling out into the yard, Harry is by far the last to arrive. He spent the last few hours watching Teddy, necessitating an additional trip home to change. He’d pulled his final night shift the evening before and his sleep schedule is shot to hell at this point, having slept well into the afternoon.

He hadn’t been woken nearly as pleasantly today as he had yesterday, needless to say.

Pausing on the path, he runs a hand through his hair one last time, trying not to let that thought derail him. He prepares himself to face the entire Weasley clan in full celebration mode, even as part of him wonders what it will be like to see Ginny again after yesterday. Will it be weird? Is _he_ going to be weird?

He can only hope there won’t be a recurrence of feeling stupidly flustered around her or reliving particular memories at inappropriate times. Yes. They had sex. Twice. That doesn’t have to change a thing. But he also thinks it would be weird if nothing changed.

“For god’s sake, Potter,” he mutters to himself. “Pull it together.”

“You coming in tonight, Harry?” Bill’s voice calls out. “Or are you just going to keep talking to yourself in the dark?”

Cursing under his breath to be caught out like a nutter, Harry moves back up the path, taking the stairs two at a time.

Bill watches him from the doorway. “The Department of Mysteries works quick, doesn’t it?”

“What?” Harrys asks, patting awkwardly at his hair.

“Two months and you’re already weirder,” he says with a grin.

“Sod off,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.

Bill just laughs, reaching out and mussing his hair before giving him a shove inside.

“Is that Harry?” George says, his head sticking out of the sitting room. “ _Finally_. Now can we do this?”

Sure enough, inside is packed nearly to bursting. Hermione is on Ron’s lap in one chair, Bill crossing over to stand behind Fleur in the chair next to them. Percy stands stiffly by the window, Arthur smirking to himself from behind a newspaper in his usual seat by the wireless.

Ginny is on the couch next to Burke, George elbowing his way over to join her.

“Sorry I’m late,” Harry says, his eyes on Ginny as she looks up at him.

She is absolutely luminous. Her eyes bright and sparkling, clearly so happy to be surrounded by her family, so proud of all she’s accomplished.

Harry expects his palms to start sweating, but as she smiles at him, all he feels is bizarrely quiet and calm, like everything is exactly as it should be.

“Congratulations,” he says, because he may know he was the first to find out, but no one else does. 

“Thank you,” she says, biting her lip and looking just the slightest bit flustered.

Harry feels his grin widen.

“Alright. Let’s do this,” Bill says, clapping his hands together. “You too, Percy.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he insists, even as he gets dragged up between George and Ron and Harry shifts out of their way.

Molly appears from the kitchen, smiling at Harry as she wipes her hands dry on a cloth.

The four Weasley brothers arrange themselves in the middle of the sitting room in front of Ginny.

“This should be fun,” Burke says from next to Ginny, looking amused.

“Ginny,” Bill says, arms thrown dramatically wide. “On the eve of your great victory, the launch of your career as a Ballycastle freakin’ Bat, we have one thing to say to you.”

He looks down the line of his brothers, counting off to three with his fingers.

All together, the four of them rattle off, “You were right and we were wrong.”

Ginny lets out a shout of laughter, closing her eyes as if that is the most blissful thing she has ever heard. “Oh, please say it again,” she says, clutching her hands to her chest. 

“Never,” George says, flopping back down on the couch immediately. “In fact, I will never again admit that even happened, so I hope you enjoyed it.”

“I will never ever forget it, I promise you,” Ginny says. She turns to Burke, poking him in the arm. “Did you hear that? I was right and more importantly, they were _wrong_.”

“Yes, yes,” he says. “You’re bloody amazing. Are we going to eat anytime soon?”

“Not yet,” Ron says, giving him a hard look. “We have something for you, Ginny.” He lifts a wrapped present.

Ginny sits up. “I thought the apology was the gift?”

“Oh, well then, we’ll return it,” Bill says, pretending to reach over and take it from Ron.

“Gimme gimme gimme,” Ginny says, making grabby hands.

Ron dutifully hands it over. It’s about the size of a shoe box, but when Ginny pulls the lid off, she frowns, gingerly easing her hand inside. “If this is a prank, I am going to curse all your pants to intermittently itch for the rest of your bloody lives.”

Ron looks at Percy. “How were we blessed with such a sweet sister?”

Ginny ignores that, her arm sinking lower and lower into the box until she’s nearly up to her shoulder. Her hand must finally find something, because her eyes widen and then she is eagerly pulling back, the smooth handle of a broom rapidly appearing as she drops the box to the floor.

Ginny stares down at it, managing nothing more than a few sputtering words. “How—what—who—I— _what_?”

George crows. “We did it, we rendered her speechless. It only took eighteen years.”

“This is a Perseid,” she says, her voice disbelieving. “A _Perseid_.” She looks around at her brothers, eyes almost pleading, and it occurs to Harry that she’s worried this is some elaborate prank.

Considering how disrupted broom design and production was during the war thanks to supply issues and Goblin refusal to provide one of the essential components, he’s not surprised she doubts it’s real. It is above and beyond the best broom in existence today, topping even the Firebolt--a feat countless designers have spent _years_ trying to best with no real progress. Until this broom. 

“It is,” Bill says, voice reassuring.

Ginny lets out a shaky breath, setting it down across the table with what is clear reluctance. “You really didn’t have to, I mean… It’s _amazing_.” She gives it another look full of longing.

“But?” George demands.

Ginny licks her lips. “But the Bats will provide me with a broom. It’s an unnecessary expense.”

“A Perseid?” Bill asks. “They provide one of those for all their brand new probationary third-string players, do they?”

Ginny gives the broom another longing look. “No, probably not.”

They’ll probably set her up with a Nimbus, Harry knows. An excellent broom and definitely a massive upgrade for Ginny from her old Cleansweep. Maybe even a Firebolt. But neither of those are a Perseid.

George nods. “Oliver said as much when we asked him. Also that having your own stunningly spectacular broom should help you get your hands on a substantial signing bonus when it’s time to negotiate your contract.”

Ginny looks like she is struggling to process all of that, the Perseid still lying on the table in front of her.

“Pick up the damn broom, Ginny,” Ron says, “and let us do something nice for you for once.”

Bill nods. “Consider it payback for all the times we wouldn’t let you play with us.”

“It was Mum’s idea,” Percy blurts.

Ginny immediately turns to look at Molly as if in confirmation, something painfully hopeful in her expression. “It was?”

Molly lifts her chin. “A professional broom for my professional daughter. It’s only right.”

Ginny abruptly pushes to her feet, grabbing the broom as she goes, clutched to her chest as if scared to let it out of her sight. She pulls Molly into a tight, one-armed hug.

Harry is just close enough to make out Molly’s words as she hugs her daughter back. “We are so very, very proud of you.”

“Thank you, Mum,” Ginny says, voice thick.

“For the record,” Ron says loudly, “the rest of us threw in as well. Hermione and Harry too. Even Burke.”

Ginny pulls back from her mother, looking distinctly misty, but covering with a broad smile. She looks over at Burke. “Brooms are a total waste, are they?”

“I only put in a tiny, tiny bit,” he says. “Like a knut. And only because your brothers are _relentless_.” 

Ginny doesn’t look like she believes that for a second. She turns to Ron, hugging him tight. “Thank you.”

She moves around the room, hugging and kissing each of her brothers and her dad and Fleur.

“Ugh, ugh,” George says, peeling her off him. “What kind of thanks is this?”

Bill is far happier to receive his hug, Harry notices, and Ginny and Percy spend a long time talking quietly together.

Eventually she makes her way over to him.

“Now we can have a real race,” Harry says. “Perseid versus Firebolt.”

“I’m going to crush you,” she says, reaching forward and hugging him.

“You wish,” he says, squeezing her back, and there is nothing weird or awkward about it, just this feeling of perfect contentment in his chest.

“Well that is enough of that,” Molly says, voice brisk. “Dinner’s on the table.”

There’s a chorus of groans. “But we want to try out the broom!”

“That is your sister’s broom and I wouldn’t blame her for not wanting to share with you lot,” Molly shoots back. “Now sit!”

Dinner passes in the usual chaotic fashion, Harry sitting between Ron and George and across from Fleur. At the other end of the table, Ginny sits with Burke, who spends most of the meal in deep conversation with Arthur and Percy. It’s strange to hear Burke and Arthur talking casually about work. Harry was a bit shocked at first to hear that Burke had chosen to do his apprenticeship in the Muggle Relations Department working directly for Arthur.

It’s not like he doesn’t have a NEWT in Muggle Studies, only one of four students to even sit the exam that year, but it still seems weird to see them casually chatting, like he’s been adopted into the family.

Ron huffs dismissively. “At least Dad finally has someone to natter on about Muggles with.”

“Yeah,” Harry says.

The moment dinner ends they dart outside, Ginny being kind enough to give each of her brothers a ride on the broom, but only after taking a rather daredevil turn around the paddock a few times herself.

“It’s _amazing_ ,” Ginny moans in contentment as Bill whoops his way across the pond.

By nine, everyone starts to drift off, Bill and Fleur back home, George and Percy back to their flats.

“Just as well,” Ginny says, “or I’m going to be late.” She still has her broom clutched in one hand.

“And where are you off to?” Molly asks.

“Oh, I’m just meeting up with my old teammates for a little celebration.”

Molly glances at Arthur, but seems to belatedly realize that she doesn’t actually get to decide if her full-grown daughter gets to go out with friends.

Ginny crosses over and kisses Molly’s cheek. “Thanks for dinner, Mum. And the broom. It’s seriously amazing.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Molly says.

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Burke says, giving her a winsome smile.

“It was nice to have you, Tobias, dear.”

They walk out into the sitting room, Ron, Hermione, and Harry trailing after them.

Burke gives Ginny a hug. “Well, have fun. And congrats again on being good at the…broom thing.”

She laughs, giving him a squeeze before stepping back.

“Wait,” Ron says, sounding alarmed. “You aren’t going with her?”

Tobias shakes his head. “I’ll do dinner. But I don’t do Quidditch pub parties. No, thank you.”

Ron looks horrified at the idea of Ginny going alone.

“You lot want to tag along?” she asks breezily, as if she doesn’t care one way or another.

Harry wonders how long she’s been planning this.

“Really?” Ron says, like he was expecting far more of a fight.

She shrugs. “Hey, if you want to spend more time celebrating how great I am, who am I to deny you? I’m going to run my broom upstairs and do a quick change.”

Harry thinks she looks great already, but knows better than to say so. Or to offer to help.

“Do you mind?” Ron asks, turning to Harry after she goes.

Harry tries to look vaguely interested, shrugging nonchalantly. “Well, considering my body thinks bedtime is seven a.m. these days, I’ve got some time to burn.”

Ron nods, turning to Hermione. “What do you say?”

“If you are only going to spy on Ginny,” she starts to say, arms folded over her chest.

Ron looks at her with wide eyes. “I’m going to help my sister celebrate and to hang out with my best mate and my best girl.” He gives her a smile that is clearly meant to win her over.

Hermione seems to bend slightly, like she’s charmed against her will even as she rolls her eyes. “Just for a little while.”

“Great,” Ron says. “This will be fun!”

They sit around chatting for maybe fifteen minutes before Ginny comes back. She’s wearing a pair of black trousers that cling to her legs, and a rather loose fitting long-sleeved shirt in dark blue. The fabric shimmers slightly as she moves. She’s wearing more makeup than usual, her hair falling in soft waves.

Basically, she looks amazing, and Harry is certain he’s doing a poor job of controlling his expression. He forces himself to look away from her, only to find Ron staring at her with narrowed eyes.

It’s not like Ron can really find fault with her outfit, even if it were any of his business. The neckline of the shirt is high, the fabric stretching across her collarbones with only the slightest tantalizing glimpse of skin on the curve of her shoulders.

Of course, then she passes by them as she heads into the kitchen and they get an eyeful of the back of her shirt. Or rather, _lack_ of a back of her shirt. The fabric falls away from her shoulders in a deep V exposing a swath of toned back and pale skin.

Harry feels his mouth go dry.

“Oi,” Ron says, charging after Ginny. “I’ll not have my sister running around looking like a tart!”

Harry doesn’t hear Ginny’s reply to that, too busy watching her walk away.

“You’re staring, Harry,” Hermione says.

“Hm?” Harry says, tearing his eyes away.

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Well,” he says, sure his neck is turning red, but knowing he needs to brazen through. “It’s just kind of an interesting shirt, right? From a purely,” he waves his hands around a bit, “structural point of view. Like how it manages to stay in place.”

Hermione spears him with a dubious look.

“You look very nice too, Hermione,” Harry says.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Boys,” she mutters.

He’s saved from replying to that by angry voices in the kitchen.

Hermione sighs. “I suppose I should go distract Ron before Ginny hexes him.”

Harry blows out a breath as she drops the line of questioning, trying to ignore the way Hermione’s gaze was just a little too knowing for comfort. How typical to give something away just as they are getting ready to let everyone know at last.

He winces, following the sound of raised voices into the kitchen.

* * *

Having somehow managed to keep hold of her temper, probably helped by the lingering affection for her new broom, Ginny arrives at the pub without having hexed Ron.

It’s not the usual place she meets friends, neither the much more family friendly _Leaky_ nor the trendy _Hippogriff_. The _Bludger and Bat_ is a sports pub, the slightly run-down walls covered in sports paraphernalia. It’s said this used to be the haunt of Ludo Bagman and his crowd back in his Wasp days.

Ginny imagines it for a moment, one of her jerseys up on the wall. She shakes her head, reminding herself that she has a hell of a lot of work ahead of her still.

“That’s a great bloody load of Slytherins,” Ron says from behind her.

There’s only five of them so far, though her former teammates are larger than average and seem to fill the space more than most people.

Ginny sighs, perfectly aware that Ron is here out of some misguided sense of protectiveness. If it means she gets to have Harry here, she honestly doesn’t care.

Harry is eyeing the group with similar wariness, though she can’t be sure if that’s more his general dislike of crowds of any kind, let alone Slytherins he once had rather tempestuous run-ins with on the pitch.

“Just try to remember—” she starts to say.

“To behave myself?” Ron says.

“I was going to say, that you are _vastly_ outnumbered.” She pats him on the cheek. “Act accordingly.”

He scowls, pushing her away.

Hearing her name called, Ginny crosses the pub to join Flint, Warrington, and Bletchley. They are the only members of her former squad here so far, the others being their schoolmates that Ginny has rather vague memories of from her early days at Hogwarts.

Bassenthwaite, of course, is not here. Still can’t leave that bloody cottage, though part of her wonders if he would have come anyway. Wonders if any of her former teammates are still in contact with him at all. Similarly, she doesn’t expect any sign of Draco, still firmly in exile from his former Slytherin brethren as best she can tell.

Goyle is still in Azkaban, and if that asshat Urquhart dares to show his hateful, Carrow arse-kissing face, she’s not sure what she’d be capable of doing, the bloody traitor. Graham is still missing, and Crabbe…

Ginny refuses to think on any of that tonight.

“Damn, Six,” Flint says by way of greeting, using her old team number. “When did you get so hot?”

He’s just as hulking as ever, only a bit more full about the middle these days. Working for his father in one of those vague import/export businesses, if she recalls.

She rolls her eyes. “Charming as always, Flint.”

“Hey, who put you on your first Quidditch team?”

“You did. And I will always be grateful, but I’m still not going to put up with your shite.”

He laughs. “You always were full of piss. From the very first day.” He turns to look at Bletchley. “Remember that Bludger Higgs tried to get her with at the trials?”

He smirks. “I remember better how drunk we got her after our first win.”

Flint smacks him on the arm. “Fuck, yes! I’d almost forgotten. She couldn’t even walk!”

“You arseholes do realize I was twelve at the time, don’t you?”

Flint frowns at her. “Really?” he asks.

Ginny nods.

But rather than looking at all contrite, Flint throws back his head and laughs like that somehow makes it only funnier.

Warrington, as always, doesn’t seem to have much to say, just giving her a rather firm pat on the arm.

Ron, Hermione, and Harry settle at a table nearby but definitely not within the circle of her old teammates, confirming that they don’t really have any interest in mingling.

Vaisey wanders in next. She appreciates him coming, considering his own trials didn’t go quite as he hoped, not having clinched a spot on any team. He’s going to play with one of the lower local leagues for a year and then try again. She has faith he’ll get there eventually.

It’s too bad Demelza and Reiko and the rest are still at school, though she is mildly surprised to see that they didn’t try to sneak off anyway, like Reiko had threatened in her congratulatory letter.

“Rosier’s on shift,” Vaisey reports as he joins the group at the table. “Pulling all the shite hours. But he says congrats and that he would have been here if he could.”

“Still can’t believe he’s going for the Aurors,” Bletchley says.

He chose the right side in the end, that’s what matters.

Someone has just procured Ginny a drink when Thompson arrives. Her ex-boyfriend is now working for his father designing brooms. He strides up to her, pulling her into a big hug.

“I knew you’d make it,” he says.

“Thanks,” she says, warmed by his confidence in her. She pulls back away. “I appreciate you coming.”

His expression remains as neutral as ever, but there is something in his gaze that makes her instantly feel a bit like a confused fourteen-year-old girl again. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says.

They settle down at the table, Warrington shifting down to make room for Thompson next to her. It’s weird to see him, this person she once spent almost every day with. But that had been before. Before the war. Before everything, really. She’s an entirely different person.

Thompson proves to be as talkative as ever, as in not at all. Vaisey grills her on the details of her position, the next steps she has to take.

“I have four weeks of probation ahead of me,” she explains. “Gives them a chance to orient me to the team strategies and still have the option to change their mind and get rid of me before I sign a contract.”

“They’d have to be out of their minds to want to get rid of you,” Thompson says from next to her. His arm comes to rest on the back of her chair and doesn’t leave.

She sits stiffly a moment before leaning away, seemingly to hear something Warrington says about his cousin playing for the Arrows.

Ginny glances back over at Harry when she gets a chance, but he isn’t watching, seemingly oblivious if not for the stiffness of his shoulders as he listens to Hermione.

* * *

Harry hefts his empty bottle. “I’m gonna get another drink. Need anything?”

Ron shakes his head, still only halfway through his ale as he stares over at Ginny and her more and more boisterous friends with his eyes narrowed. He hasn’t exactly been the most interesting conversational partner the last hour.

“Hermione?” Harry asks. “Another gillywater?” She looks like she could use a drink.

She gives him a long-suffering look at being ignored by her ridiculously overprotective boyfriend. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“I’ll be back,” he says. “Have fun.”

Hermione sighs.

Harry crosses over to the bar, ordering his drink and leaning against the wood as he waits. A short while later, Ginny appears in search of her own refill. For the moment, they are somehow miraculously alone. She raises her arm, ordering another drink as the bartender delivers Harry’s.

“You should probably stop glaring at people,” she says in an undertone once the bartender walks away.

Harry takes a sip of his butterbeer. He decided early on this evening that he would need to keep his wits about him. “What can I say? I’m still bitter over the House Quidditch Cup.”

Ginny apparently isn’t convinced. “No chance at all that you’re maybe a little…jealous?” she asks, tone playful.

Considering he’s been having a rather annoying battle inside his head the entire evening on that very topic, he shoots back a response without really thinking it through. “If you’re going home with anyone tonight, I think I know who that’d be.”

He hears her soft intake of breath and considers that he’s far overstepped himself, his stupidity being fueled by what he knows is baseless jealousy.

He braces himself for her anger, but when he finally looks at her, there is an entirely different kind of fire in her eyes, a soft flush across her cheeks. “You seem pretty sure of yourself, Potter.”

“No,” he says, voice softening even as his heart thunders away. “Just hopeful.”

She smiles. “An optimist,” she says before taking a drink of her ale, and Harry has a hard time tearing his eyes away from her lips.

“Have I mentioned how amazing you look tonight?”

She gives him an arch look. “Not like a tart?”

Harry’s jaw clenches. “If he weren’t your brother and my best mate…”

“You’d what?” she asks, something slightly dangerous in her tone.

Harry considers her, forcing himself to be careful with his words. “Hold your drink for you while you kick his arse?”

She lets out a startled laugh, looking up at him. “You know, Harry, for being completely hopeless, sometimes you say exactly the right thing.”

He grins. “I promise I won’t let it go to my head.”

The urge to kiss her is nearly overwhelming, his fingers itching to touch her back.

Flint and Thompson approach then, saving Harry from the impulse. He straightens up, schooling his expression.

“Six,” Flint exclaims overly loudly, sliding Harry a dismissive glance. “There you are. Get back over here.” He wraps an arm around Ginny’s waist, his hand coming to rest far too low on her person for Harry’s taste.

Ginny carelessly shoves Flint off. “Hands to yourself, you fucking lout, or I’ll curse you into next week.” Her tone is light, but with a band of steel underneath that even Flint isn’t so drunk not to pick up on.

He immediately lets her go, laughing uproariously. “For fuck’s sake, Six. Have another drink and stop breaking my balls.”

Ginny just rolls her eyes and picks up her drink before following him back over to their table. Harry considers that growing up surrounded by brothers and male teammates hasn’t so much coddled Ginny as made her eminently capable of taking care of herself. If only Ron could see that before she hexes him.

She gives Harry one last lingering look back over her shoulder, and he lifts his bottle to her in salute.

“Still clinging to that fantasy, I see.”

Harry glances over to see Thompson smirking at him as he waits for his drink.

“Excuse me?” Harry asks, his voice hardening.

Thompson shrugs. “Not like I can really blame you.” He scoops up his drink and walks away, sitting back down next to Ginny, smiling at something she says.

As Harry watches, Thompson’s hand brushes her knee, but it’s only a few moments before Ginny moves out of reach, turning to talk with Vaisey.

Harry still notices every time someone touches her.

He returns to the table with Ron and Hermione, not doing all that great of a job of keeping Hermione company as Ron continues to chunter under his breath. Harry can’t help but feel vaguely annoyed that if anyone is in a position to be irritated by all the attention Ginny is getting, it’s _him_ , not Ron.

Harry tries to distract both of them by bringing up their greatest Quidditch memories from school, and Ron finally starts to unwind, his attention turning to Hermione as the evening continues without any trouble from Ginny’s boisterous mates.

An hour later, Harry catches Ginny crossing the room out of the corner of his eye. Rather than towards the bar, she heads for the rear of the pub. Harry forces himself to carry on the conversation endless minutes longer before excusing himself.

“Loo,” he says by way of explanation.

Ron and Hermione barely seem to notice his departure, they are so wrapped up in one another.

He doesn’t really have anything particular in mind, a plan or anything, just crosses the pub without thinking. The toilet is at the end of short hallway, but there are a series of other doors too. The second one Harry tries turns out to be a small storage closet of sorts, shelves lined with casks and boxes stretching from floor to ceiling.

“Harry?” Ginny asks when she appears, looking surprised to find him lurking back there.

He grabs her hand and pulls her into the closet, closing the door behind them. He kisses her, and after a startled moment, she kisses him back, her body pressing eagerly up against his.

“Optimism getting the better of you?” she teases.

“Something’s getting the better of me,” he says, wishing he could blame it on alcohol, when he knows it’s all just Ginny.

“And what’s that?” she says, hands sliding up around his neck, clearly very content to be here.

“It may be this damn shirt,” he says, fingers catching the shimmering fabric.

Her eyebrows lift, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, really?”

“Only one way to find out. Turn around.”

He’d been mostly joking, so he’s surprised when she gives him a look that burns down his entire body and then complies.

Presented with her back, Harry reaches up, carefully gathering her hair and pulling it over one shoulder, leaving her neck exposed. For a long moment he just looks, impatience tingling in his fingers.

Finally giving into the impulse to touch, he brushes the nape of her neck with his fingers, Ginny shivering in reaction. Following the curve of her spine, he travels slowly down the bare skin of her back, exploring each dip and rise. He feels her lean into his touch, and flattens his palm in search of more contact.

Ginny’s hand reaches back for him, brushing against his thigh.

No longer content with just touching, he finds himself leaning closer, brushing his lips along the top of her shoulder. Her head falls to the side, giving him better access, and he can’t help but open his mouth wider, working his lips and tongue along the line of her shoulder, up the side of her neck, the spot just below her ear.

“Harry,” she says, breathing uneven and fingers digging into his thigh like she wants him closer, like she wants so much more.

He really never intended to do anything more than indulge a brief need to touch her, but her voice, the feel of her, the taste of her skin, it all makes caution evaporate. Grazing her neck with his teeth, his hand slips in under the edge of her shirt. The fabric shifts, beginning to pull against her shoulder, clinging tantalizingly, some charm clearly keeping it in place.

“I wondered,” he says, “if you had anything on under this.”

“Did you?” she asks, a hitch in her voice as her head falls back against his shoulder, only improving his view.

He deliberately shifts his hand, and a moment later the fabric slithers down her arm, Ginny gasping, but making no move to stop it.

“I guess now I know,” he says, thumbs brushing up against alluringly bare skin.

She arches up into his touch, and he happily responds by increasing pressure, kneading gently. Everything seems to blur, to get lost in the feel of her restless against him, the friction building between their bodies.

He sucks in a ragged breath, ruthlessly reminding himself of the setting. “Do you want me to stop?” he somehow manages to ask.

She shakes her head, her hips shifting.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. “Are you sure?” he asks, never intending to take it this far, particularly in a place like this, where anyone could walk in on them at any time. He finds the prospect more exciting than he probably should.

She seems to as well. “Yes,” she says, voice hoarse. “Please don’t stop.”

It’s the need in her voice that overrides any last restraint he has. He moves so his back is pressed to the door to at least keep out any unwanted visitors, and then stops thinking all together, everything focused on Ginny as he drags her back against his chest, his fingers popping open the button on her trousers and slipping down into her knickers.

She lets out a ragged curse, one arm lifting up over her head to thread her fingers into his hair as she presses back against him.

“God, I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he admits.

“Me too,” she says, and the idea that she has, that her thoughts have been centered on him just as much as his have been on her, is like a fire in his chest. 

He doesn’t care anymore if anyone is going to walk in, if anyone can hear them, if they’ve been gone too long. All he cares about is making her come apart, wanting to hear her groan his name. It’s something primal and almost frightening, this need to know that he and he alone can do this to her. That of all the people out there, _he_ is the one she wants.

He can’t stand out in that bar and hold her hand or kiss her or lay any claim to her. But here, he has all of her.

She draws his name out, saying it like a plea as he continues to touch her, and he finds himself saying things to her--ridiculous, silly, completely honest things. Telling her exactly what this is doing to him, how much he wants her, how beautiful she is.

Tension builds and builds in her body, her fingers tightening in his hair as she gets closer and closer. She bites down on her lower lip in an attempt to keep herself quiet as she shudders, a cry building in her throat as her head jerks forward.

She eventually leans heavily back against him, the sound of her breathing unnaturally loud in the small space as reality rather rudely reasserts itself.

Harry closes his eyes, trying to pull himself back together, to breathe through the urge to spin her around and take things way too far. If he hasn’t already. He rights her shirt, pulling his hands gradually back. He feels stupidly sheepish, like she might somehow not notice where they’d been in the first place if he does it slowly enough.

As his hold on her loosens, Ginny immediately turns in his arms, burying her face in his chest and wrapping her arms around him. “That was…” She trails off, seeming at a loss for words. “I didn’t know it could be like that.”

“Me either,” he says, beginning to feel a bit embarrassed by his boldness, by letting himself lose control like that, by doing those things to her, here of all places.

Her hand slides up in the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. It’s deep and searing and he finds himself fighting to hold back a groan of his own.

He very reluctantly pulls back. “Ginny,” he says, knowing he can’t handle much more of this. Or maybe just trying to prove that he _is_ capable of controlling himself around her at least a little bit.

“What?” she asks.

He touches her face. “Someone’s going to come looking for you if you’re gone much longer.”

“Maybe I don’t care,” she says.

“You do.”

Her chin lifts. “I have my spot.”

His heart lurches--half excitement, half terror as he thinks about walking back out there with her, imagines Thompson’s stupid, smug face falling slack in shock, but also that Ron and Hermione are out there.

 _How could you?_ Ron’s voice accuses.

“Is this the moment?” Harry asks weakly.

Ginny sighs, her head falling forward against his chest. “I suppose that would make it harder for you to sneak me into Grimmauld tonight.” She peers up at him as if unsure of how he’ll react to that.

“Yeah?” he asks, hope inflating in his chest.

She bites her lip, nodding. “Yeah.”

It’s almost enough to make him forget himself again. “Okay.”

She smiles, her shoulders relaxing. “So we have a deal?”

“Definitely,” he agrees. He steps back away from her. “You should get back out there. It’s your party.”

She presses both hands to her cheeks. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to face anyone. I must look…”

Harry considers her, the brightness of her eyes, the flush of her cheeks. “You look amazing,” he says, slightly adjusting her shirt, fingers skimming down her arms. She’ll need to recast whatever charm she had on her shirt.

He frowns when he notices that a mark beginning to darken on her shoulder. He pulls her hair forward to cover it.

“Maybe just keep your hair down,” he says, knowing his cheeks are blazing.

She touches her shoulder, her eyebrows lifting. “You are endlessly full of surprises.”

“Is that good?” he can’t help but ask.

She steps closer, eyes intent on his face, and he knows she probably sees far more of his uncertainty than he’d like. Her smile is soft as she touches his face. “Yes, Harry,” she says. “That is a very good thing.” She closes her eyes, her expression blissful. “A very, very, very, very good thing. Amazing even.”

Harry can’t help but laugh, pulling her close. “Okay, I think I get the idea.”

She kisses him, and he is very tempted to lose himself again in the taste of her mouth, the press of her body against his. “You need to go,” he says, voice rough.

“You’re going to be okay?” she asks, looking concerned.

“Yeah,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. “I just need a few minutes.”

“If you gave me a few minutes…” she says, still not looking completely convinced as she recasts the charms on her shirt.

“Go,” he says, shooing her. “Before I change my mind.”

She gives him a look that seems to say that isn’t the threat he thinks it is, but starts moving. At the door, she turns back to him. “You are coming back out, right?”

He smiles. “I promise.”

She crosses back, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I’m going to hold you to that.” With one last smile, she disappears out the door.

It actually ends up taking more like fifteen minutes before he composes himself enough to brave the pub again.

“Harry, mate,” Ron says. “Where the hell did you bugger off to?”

Harry shrugs. “Just stepped outside to clear my head.”

“Well, clear your head on your own time. I need your help keeping these goons off my sister.”

Harry feels his smile slip.

Hermione frowns at Harry. “Are you all right? You look a little flushed.”

“Yeah,” he says, refusing to give in to the urge to touch his lips. “Fine.”

Ginny glances over at them, smiling at him, leaving Harry wondering how he can at once be so eager to have this finally out and over with, and also be reluctant, like they will somehow lose something fundamental, sharing this thing with the world that for so long has been completely their own.

* * *

As the party stretches on, Ron clearly wants to take Hermione home. And not for any reason Harry ever wants to think about. Their faces are both slightly flushed, and Harry suspects he does not want to know what is going on under the table.

“You two can go,” Harry says.

Ron glances over to where Ginny is laughing with her former teammates. He sighs. “I can’t leave her here. Not with _them_. Who knows if she’d ever make it home?”

Harry isn’t quite so certain. He has the sneaking suspicion more than one of those blokes would burn this building down for Ginny. She apparently has that effect on people.

“I’ll stay,” Harry offers.

“Really?” Ron says, perking up, and apparently they’ve found the one thing stronger than his desire to babysit Ginny.

Though Harry realizes it would probably be hypocritical to judge him for that. 

“Sure,” he says with a shrug. “My body still thinks it’s lunchtime, so I’m not gonna be able to sleep anyway. Besides, Hermione looks tired.”

“What?” Hermione asks, only to change her tune abruptly as Ron apparently nudges her under the table. Her cheeks flush. “Yes, I am a bit tired.”

It’s only through great love of these two that he manages not to roll his eyes. “Go.”

Ron apparently decides to take him up on the offer before Harry changes his mind.

He grabs Ron’s sleeve as he passes, lowering his voice. “For the love of god, please use privacy charms.”

Ron’s ears turn red, but he nods enthusiastically all the same. “I’ll remember this time, I _promise_.”

Harry grimaces.

After Ron and Hermione leave, he moves to stand at the bar, mainly because it feels slightly less creepy than sitting at a table by himself. But also because maybe he’ll get a chance to talk to Ginny again if she needs another drink.

He’s pathetic. Whatever.

He orders another butterbeer and leans back against the bar, keeping one eye on Ginny.

He isn’t there long when a group of rowdy witches arrive, swarming the bar. Harry budges over to make room for them, but otherwise ignores them. Or so he does until he notices a very strange sensation.

No, he is not imagining that someone’s hand is on his arse. He turns around and a short, brown-haired witch is grinning toothily up at him. “Hi,” she says with an exaggerated wink. 

“Mirabelle, seriously,” another witch says, pulling her away. “Sashia has a drink for you. Over there.”

This seems to excite the witch even more than Harry’s bum, and she disappears with a small squeak of pleasure.

“Sorry about her,” his savior says with a grimace. “American, you know.”

Harry snorts into his drink.

She smiles at him. “Here, I’ll stand here, keep myself as a buffer between you and Mirabelle’s wandering hands.”

“Right,” Harry says, a bit alarmed to find that he’s nearly at the end of the bar where it meets the wall. Not exactly a lot of space to make a clean escape.

“I’m Helene,” she says, holding out her hand. She has a slight accent and hair so pale it’s almost white. Scandinavian, he assumes.

“Harry,” he says, shaking it.

She laughs. “Oh, yes. Harry as in…” She trails off, her eyes traveling up to his forehead.

She frowns for a moment, and he sees it, the moment she realizes who he is. He supposes it was too much to hope that people in other bloody countries hadn’t heard of him at least.

Helene lets go of his hand. “I thought you were just feeding me a line.”

He frowns. “People try that?”

She laughs again. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Harry is too confused by the idea that people might pretend to be him to notice the other witch that sidles up.

“And who’s this?” she asks, giving him a once over.

Harry tenses, ready to deal with the avalanche of attention from the entire group realizing who he is, but Helene simply smiles and says, “This is Harold! He sells shoes.” She gives him a little impertinent smile.

“Yes,” Harry says. “I love shoes.”

The other witches give him unimpressed looks, but Helene just laughs.

“Buy us a round, will you, handsome?” she asks with a wink.

Harry figures that’s the least he owes her, and maybe once they have a drink they’ll leave him be. “Sure.”

Unfortunately the witches only seem more kindly inclined towards him once they realize they are getting free drinks. Some of them even try to flirt with him. He doesn’t flirt back, obviously, but he gives up trying to chase them off either, half because it wouldn’t do to stand alone at the bar like some creep, and half because Ginny seems to be having a fine time, so he should probably try to look like he is well.

Thanks to Helene’s lie, he at least doesn’t have to put with stupid questions about Voldemort. A few of them are even interesting enough, students on some sort of exchange program from all over Europe. There’s just the one who keeps touching him, and he has yet to work out a polite way to tell people like that to shove off. This, he knows, is why he so rarely goes out to places like this.

“Who’s the redhead?” Helene asks.

“I’m sorry?” Harry says.

She cants her head towards Ginny. “You’re watching her.”

He thought he was a bit more covert than that. “Best mate’s little sister,” he says, trying to make it sound like a chore. “I promised to get her properly home.”

“How… _heroic_ ,” she says, bumping his elbow.

Harry rolls his eyes.

He forces himself not to watch Ginny for a bit, and when he finally glances back over at her, it’s just in time to see her throw back a shot of something to the roaring approval of the people around her. Harry narrows his eyes, noting the flush to her cheeks and the slightly uncoordinated movements of her body.

“Excuse me,” he says to the witches, giving them a distracted smile. “I have to go.”

They make sounds of protest, the handsy one touching him again. He just shakes her off none too politely and puts some coins on the counter to cover the drinks. “Have a nice night,” he tells them all, walking away without looking back.

He wades into the main room of the pub, heading straight for Ginny. The closer he gets, the clearer it is that she has majorly stepped up her drinking game in the last hour. He could have sworn she was fine when Ron and Hermione left. Still, it’s her party, and she has plenty of reasons to celebrate.

“Ginny,” he says, touching her arm, ignoring the range of hostile looks he gets from her former teammates as he approaches. “It’s getting late.”

She spins to look at him, stumbling and spilling her drink, barely missing his shoe. “But the fun has just started!” Her voice is clearly slurred.

He’s surprised that she’s let herself get this pissed. And a bit disappointed as well, because this definitely puts an end to any plans they had for tonight. But really, that’s the least of his worries at the moment.

“Okay,” he says, taking the glass from her hand and putting it on a nearby table. “That’s probably enough for tonight.”

One of the lugs scowls at him. He’s having a hard time keeping them all straight. Each one seems to be taller, broader, and angrier than the last. “What are you, Potter, her babysitter?”

He sighs, willing himself to keep his temper. “Look, I promised her brother I would make sure she got home okay.”

“And how do we know _you_ have her best interests at heart?” Flint says.

Harry is going to kill Ron later, he decides, forgetting that he practically shoved his mates out the door. Probably having a shag right now. Ugh.

One of the former Chasers nods. He steps closer, ruthlessly jabbing Harry in the chest. “Besides, what makes you think we’d just let you sweep out of here with her, eh, Potter?”

Harry tries to take a breath, to remind himself that these are Ginny’s teammates, that they just want what’s best for her. But frankly, he’s out of patience.

“What makes you think you could stop me?” Harry asks, hand tightening on Ginny’s arm as he pushes her behind him.

Most people would see the six large blokes looming over them, all of them utterly sotted to some degree, and not push their luck. Harry just reaches into his pocket for his wand, part of him hoping they try something. He hasn’t been in a scuffle in _ages_.

Flint seems similarly excited at the prospect of violence. But a few of the other blokes have wary looks on their faces for some reason.

“Merlin,” Ginny says, tugging her arm free and tottering back into the middle of the group. “All this testosterone is enough to ruin a girl’s buzz.”

He tries to grab for her, but she rather neatly side steps him, at least until she almost trips over a chair.

“Like I don’t have enough overbearing brothers as it is without adding this one to the mix,” she says with a roll of her eyes, her teammates laughing appreciatively at the jab.

“Ginny,” Harry says, not looking forward to fighting her too.

She puts up her hands. “You win, Potter, no need to start hexing people. Honestly, Gryffindors, they are so bloody _honorable_.”

Her friends laugh, muttering more than a few abusive things about Gryffindors. The strange tension seems to snap as well though, the atmosphere miraculously lightening.

“I s’pose the party is over,” she says with a pout.

They groan, but Ginny just moves around the group alternately punching people on the shoulder and pressing kisses to their cheeks. Thompson is near the end, moving to draw her into a hug, and Harry’s had just about enough of people touching his girlfriend for one night.

“All right,” he says, pulling her away. “Back to the Burrow with you.” She stumbles, and as he reaches out steady her, he wonders if he’s even going to be able to trust her to walk out on her own. It seems to get only worse as they head towards the door.

When she nearly careens into a table full of rather annoyed looking wizards, Harry really wants nothing more than to get her out of here as efficiently as possible. On impulse, he leans down, grabbing her around the back of her thighs and hefting her up over his shoulder.

He sees Thompson scowl, but is also surprised to hear some of the others laugh.

“Well played, Potter,” someone shouts.

He feels Ginny lift her head, her body jiggling as she apparently waves at them all. “Bye!”

A chorus of voices follows them out the door.

Harry doesn’t really allow himself to relax until they are safely a few blocks away. What an absolute disaster that almost turned into. Only now he’s faced with returning to the Burrow with a drunk Ginny in tow and that isn’t much better. If he’d really been thinking straight he would have gotten her a potion at the bar.

Ginny wiggles a bit on his shoulder. “I must say, that was one of the sexiest displays I have ever seen. I mean, completely disgusting, but strangely attractive all the same.”

“What?” Harry says, not missing that something in her voice has clearly changed.

Turning into a deserted alley, he lowers her back to the ground, ready to steady her, but she drops to the ground gracefully.

“Quite the caveman routine,” she observes, brushing her hands over her clothes.

He narrows his eyes at her. “You are completely sober,” he accuses.

“Well, not _completely_ ,” she says, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “But near enough.” She looks up at him with bright eyes that are clear and focused.

His mouth drops open. “I almost got my arse kicked by your entire bloody squad!”

She waves it away. “You could have handled them. Even without me there to protect you.”

He knows he’s still gaping at her, but can’t help it. “Why in Merlin’s name would you do that?”

She shrugs, eyes focused down as if her sleeve is the most interesting thing in the world. “I was ready to go home, and you seemed to be too busy to notice.”

He frowns. Then he belatedly remembers the group of witches that had sprung up around him at the bar. The heat of his anger seems to settle lower in his body.

“Jealous?” he asks, taking a step towards her.

She lifts her chin, and he thinks she’s going to deny it, but she only says, “Violently.”

“Lucky it didn’t come to that,” he says. “I can’t say I’m in the mood for a pub brawl.”

“Liar,” she says. “I could tell how much you wanted Flint to pull his wand. You were practically itching for it.”

He crowds her against the wall, his hands resting low on her hips. “Know me that well, do you?”

She nods.

“Then you could probably tell that the whole time I was talking to those witches, all I was thinking about was getting you up to my room.”

Her fingers curl into the front of his shirt. “Prove it.”

He’d be happy to prove it right here, but isn’t quite so gone not to know what a terrible idea that is. So instead, he leans down and hefts her back up over his shoulder.

She lets out a squeak of surprise.

“Gladly,” he says, and heads for home. 

He has a promise to keep.

*** * ***

Harry wakes up one Saturday morning, an entire day stretching free ahead of him. He glances at the parchment on his bedside table. Ginny’s written during the night, or more likely very early in the morning.

She’s been in Ireland two weeks now, running herself ragged as she tries to catch up to the professional level and get used to her new broom, but also, he imagines, to prove herself worthy of the chance she’s been given.

There was coverage of the new starting and reserve rosters for all the teams in the League, earning Ginny her first small mention in the paper, which unfortunately was only long enough to question the Bats’ choice of such a young and inexperienced player.

 _You’ll show them why soon enough,_ Harry had written her, sitting on the impulse to write the _Prophet_ sports writer a rather scathing response.

 _If I can survive the next four weeks_ , had been her only response.

She spends most early mornings in physical training and calisthenics, then working through the development of new team plays. In the afternoon and evenings, she gets even more hours than the rest, having to learn and memorize all of the current standard plays of the team, the relative weaknesses and strengths of each, when to deploy them. She also gets endless hours learning about all the opposing teams.

 _Like being back in school_ , she complained once, which seems to be a common refrain amongst most of their friends.

“Did everyone think we’d never have to learn anything again?” Hermione predictably asked with no small amount of exasperation.

Fortunately, Harry’s been busy with far too much work himself, meaning that the first two weeks of Ginny’s four-week probation period have gone by relatively quickly, not that he doesn’t miss her.

He picks up the parchment, lying back and reading her words.

_I have moments when I wonder what I was thinking, picking a team in Ireland. Choosing to be so far from you. Then I’ll see Moran up on her broom…and it’s just everything I’ve wanted since I was thirteen years old. It’s so beautiful here too. Stark and green and way too windy sometimes. But the ocean stretches out to the horizon and things just feel…limitless._

_The only thing missing is you._

“One more week,” he tells himself.

One more week until she catches a special portkey back for Bill’s birthday celebration at the Burrow. And then another week until she’s home for over a month for the holidays.

Between the two of them, he’s sure they’ll be able to strategize a way to get some time alone together. Not to mention finally talk properly about how they are going to go public. Hopefully to Ron and Hermione first before the whole family. His stomach twists at the thought. He still isn’t sure how seven months have already passed. It seems impossible if not for the way thinking back to being in Australia feels like a lifetime ago. Like being an entirely different person.

But how are they going to explain keeping it a secret for that long? Or are they going to compound it all with yet another lie, pretend it hasn’t been all that long? He doesn’t think he could stomach that. But telling the truth seems almost impossible some days, like a hole that just gets deeper with each passing day.

He shoves the thought aside, wondering instead how much more difficult it will probably become to find time alone together with everyone watching and paying attention. Returning to the letter, he instead focuses on Ginny detailing exactly the ways she’s missing him, the things she would like to do when she gets back. He reads her words through three times before letting himself get lost in thoughts and plans, and much more pleasant ideas.

Ron and Hermione are still in the kitchen by the time he finally emerges for breakfast.

“Morning,” Harry says.

He’s glad to see that Ron finally doesn’t look guilty to be here on weekend mornings. Maybe that will help when it’s Ginny turn to be here on weekend mornings, Harry thinks, knowing he wants many more repeats of the one night they had together during her trials, waking up next to her instead of just a letter. Harry fights back a smile at the thought.

“Is there something you’d like to tell us, Harry?” Hermione asks.

“What?” he asks, looking up from his tea he’d apparently been staring into.

She tosses a newspaper down in front of him. Below the fold is an enormous headline that is impossible to miss.

_THE BOY WHO LOVES_

Harry feels his stomach drop to his toes, staring at it in horror. He glances up at Ron, only for some reason he looks amused, not murderous.

With a great feeling of dread, Harry flips the paper over. But rather than a photo of him strutting around London with Ginny thrown over his shoulder, it’s a picture of him in Diagon Alley with Luna from right after her return to the country.

“Luna?” Harry bursts out in disbelief.

“Well, you _are_ smiling at her,” Ron says, clearly taking way too much pleasure from this.

Harry scowls. “Because I think she’s brilliant, not because I’m in love with her.”

Hermione snorts. “Like the _Prophet_ cares one way or the other.”

Harry looks down at the extensive article in alarm. “I hope people don’t bug Luna too much,” he says.

Ron waves a hand. “She probably won’t even notice.”

Oh, she’ll notice, Harry is sure. She probably just won’t care. He shoves the paper away in annoyance. “So apparently I can’t have friends who are girls without having to subject them to this.”

“Well,” Ron says, “keep them guessing much longer, and they’ll probably start in on the boys as well.”

“Something to look forward to,” Harry deadpans.

Ron laughs, slapping him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, mate. You should read the part where some anonymous witches talk about what a flirt you are.” He jabs a finger at a paragraph in the story. “Quite the bar hopper. They even claim you dragged some unnamed witch out of a bar tossed over your shoulder! The _Prophet_ is happy to see you ‘settle down into a healthy relationship’.”

If Harry’s face flushes red, they apparently take it as anger.

That’s it, he decides, he is clearly going to hell.

He knows it is far too much to hope that Ginny won’t hear of it. Of course, when she does, all he gets is a quick note.

 _Promise me you’ll invite me to the wedding_.

Harry groans, covering his face with his hands. If something as innocent as walking in Diagon Alley with Luna could erupt into the greatest scandal since the Great Trials finally ended, Harry can only imagine what they’ll do with his relationship with Ginny.

 _Has anyone bothered you?_ he asks.

_No. They don’t have any reason to, remember?_

Right. What would an ex-Slytherin Quidditch player have to do with the Boy Who Lived?

* * *

Glancing at his watch, Harry curses. He meant to meet Ron and George at the shop before heading to the Burrow for dinner, but just missed them. Or so a stuttering Poppy informs him when he gets there.

He’s become chronically late to things since he started working in the Department of Mysteries. People always joke Unspeakables do it on purpose just to make themselves more mysterious. Like they are all too distracted to read a clock, or generally just have no life. It’s hard to explain that the physical department itself can sometimes work against you, malfunctioning time vault or no.

People are staring as Harry comes back out of the shop, so he starts back down the lane towards the apparition point. Of all days to be late.

His step quickens as he realizes that he is one small turn away from seeing Ginny. He’s going to have to work very hard to contain himself when he gets there. Though that would be one way to come out with it. He imagines it for half a second, just grabbing her and kissing her in front of everyone.

Laughing to himself, he shakes off the ridiculous idea.

A lot of people are taking advantage of the break in weather, an unseasonably mild dry patch. People are flitting in and out of shops, and next to a roaring blue fire, many families sit outside Florean’s determinedly downing ice cream despite the time of year. It all feels pleasantly normal.

With December around the corner, the shops have started putting up their holiday decorations. Harry considers that he’s going to have to think of something to buy Ginny at some point, slowing his steps just long enough to peer into some of the shop fronts as he passes.

He’s staring into a window when someone approaches him. He tenses, only to relax when he realizes who it is.

“Luna,” he says, smiling.

“Looking for anything in particular?” she asks.

Harry realizes he’s staring into a small display of jewelry in the window of a newly opened boutique. “Oh, no. Just woolgathering.”

He’s not particularly surprised to see her here. Since returning from her trip with her father, she’s taken a job in one of the shops in order to earn enough money to fund her first solo expedition. They’ve hung out a few times in the last few weeks. Harry always finds something incredibly…restful about Luna. Besides, he never misses the way she seems surprised that he wants to talk to her.

He hears an overly loud whisper, someone across the lane saying his name.

A few people stare at Harry as they pass, but mostly leave him be. He’s become more of a regular sight at Diagon Alley these days. Not that he doesn’t occasionally still get ambushed by the press. He finds himself very conscious of standing in front of a jewelry display with Luna, considering what happened the last time they were seen here together.

He knows Ginny wouldn’t think anything of it, other than to tease him mercilessly, but he still doesn’t particularly want to cause Luna anymore inconvenience.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “For the thing in the _Prophet_ last week.”

Luna looks uncertain as if not sure what he’s talking about.

He clears his throat. “The article saying you and I were…”

“Romantically involved?” she supplies for him.

“Uh, yes. That. I’m sorry if that was uncomfortable for you.”

She considers the display for a moment. “They were very confused, weren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, a bit relieved to see that Luna is treating this with the same detached bewilderment she approaches most things.

“I mean, I do love you,” she continues.

Completely caught off-guard by the confession, Harry doesn’t manage much more than an inarticulate sound in response, turning to look at her with wide eyes.

Her head tilts to the side as she regards him. “You were one of my very first friends.” She smiles widely at him. “Though I have been told that loving a friend and being in love with someone romantically isn’t the same. It’s apparently quite different. Maybe someone should explain that to the _Prophet_.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, finally finding his voice, “maybe someone should.”

Luna peers back into the storefront. “Those might be fitting,” she observes, pointing to a simple pair of earrings with deep blue stones.

“Sorry?” Harry asks.

“I think Ginny would quite like them.”

Harry stares back at her in horror, only to be distracted by the distinct crawling sensation of being watched. It isn’t the same as casual interest or even the nosey press, but something he hasn’t felt in a while. He touches Luna’s arm, his other hand reaching for his wand as the hairs on the back of his neck go up.

Everything seems to slow, like the awakening of a dormant hyper-vigilant state, his senses narrowing down on the sounds and smells and movements of the street. He notes the few people walking, the sidewalk café full of people, the low slant of fading sunlight through the clouds. Then his eye is caught by the thing that is out of place. A man in ragged robes, face gaunt and dirty, but eyes blazing, stepping out of a side alleyway. Harry barely recognizes him from wanted posters as a Death Eater still at large when everything seems to speed back up.

The wizard’s mouth is moving, a giant ball of dark smoke and blue crackling energy building in his hands. He looks straight at Harry and smiles—at once vicious and triumphant, his laughter rising up over the street.

“Everyone get down!” Harry bellows, shoving Luna to one side.

He has a scant second to bark a protective spell.

A moment later, the entire world explodes.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s not like Harry to be late, Ginny thinks, glancing at the clock. He should have been here already. 

“Is something wrong?” Fleur asks, appearing by her side and taking the bowl of vegetables from her.

“No,” Ginny says, shaking her head. “Just woolgathering.”

Fleur arches an eyebrow as if she doesn’t believe that for a moment. “We must find some time tonight to catch up.”

Ginny smiles like the idea in no way unnerves her. Though a bit of advice from her wouldn’t be the _worst_ thing. “That would be nice.”

Fleur crosses over to the table, leaving Ginny standing near the sink. She leans forward, glancing out the window. It’s Bill’s birthday and they are all gathering at the Burrow to celebrate. Harry knows her parents arranged a special portkey permit for her to get back in time for the party.

He’s probably just caught up with something at work, she tells herself. So what if it’s been three weeks since they’ve seen each other?

“Ginny!”

“Coming, Mum,” she says, abandoning her post.

They’re just sitting down to dinner when a head appears in the fire, and Ginny’s first thought is to wonder why Harry would come by Floo. He’s never adapted all that well to that form of travel.

Only it isn’t Harry.

“Markham,” Arthur says, clearly surprised as he pushes to his feet to address the head in the fire.

“Mind pulling me through, Arthur?” the wizard asks.

“Of course,” he says, reaching down and giving him a tug.

The wizard pops out of the fireplace, brushing off his robes as he glances around the room. “I apologize for the interruption, but the Minister wanted you to know right away.”

Arthur frowns, his eyes travelling over the wizard, clearly not liking what he sees. “Know what?”

“There’s been an explosion in Diagon Alley.”

“Good Godric,” Arthur says, gasps erupting in the room.

“They think it was Thorfinn Rowle.” Markham shakes his head. “A powerful dark magic.”

“How bad?” Bill asks, already up and grabbing his cloak.

Markham seems to pale even further. “The damage is extensive. Most of the street is just…gone.”

Ron is on his feet now too. “Do they need help at the site?”

Markham looks wide-eyed at Ron and then back at their dad. “Arthur.”

“What is it you aren’t telling us?”

“His target…” he says, voice faltering. “His target was Harry Potter.”

To Ginny’s ears, the room seems to erupt into a cacophony of sound, her head ringing with it. With a thump, she drops back down into her seat.

 _No_.

_No, no, no, no, no._

Through the buzzing, she vaguely hears her mum ask, “Is he all right?” her own ears straining for the answer.

“I don’t know,” Markham says. “It didn’t look good, I’m sorry to say. They took him to St. Mungo’s. Along with another young woman.” He pauses, glancing down at his notebook. “A Miss Lovegood. I don’t know anything else.”

“We have to go there,” Hermione says, voice high. “We have to get to St. Mungo’s.”

She and Ron move through the room, gathering their things.

“Shacklebolt wants you in the Ministry, Arthur.”

“Of course,” her dad says, pulling his cloak on.

“I’ll come with you,” Percy says.

“I’ll get everyone to hospital,” Bill says.

“We’ll meet you there when we can,” Arthur says, giving Molly a kiss and then he’s disappearing into the grate.

Everyone is bustling about, the movement a blur against Ginny’s vision as she stares unseeing because there just isn’t enough oxygen in the world.

It can’t be. He can’t be… This is not happening.

It _can’t_.

Someone touches Ginny’s arm and she somehow feels her body move, her face lift, her mouth move to say words that must be right somehow. It’s like she’s shattered into two people in the moment--the calm, untouchable automaton, and the terrified, screaming part of her buried and trapped way, way down.

She doesn’t remember getting to hospital. Just helping with her mother’s cloak and then she’s there, walking through the front doors with no memory of the in-between.

In the waiting room, the press is already swarming, shouting questions at them as they pass.

They get ushered into a private room with an assortment of cushioned chairs and benches. A pair of wizards is there, identifying themselves as Aurors. Bill and Fleur immediately start interrogating them for details.

For Ginny, everything seems to swarm back into sharp focus with vicious speed, every word and detail like a cut against her skin.

“Only nine people suffered injuries severe enough to require hospitalization, one who is critical in addition to Mr. Potter.”

“It would have been much worse,” the other Auror tacks on. “But it appears Potter got off some sort of powerful protection spell before the explosion. Saved at least twenty people in a nearby café, even if it didn’t help him any.”

“That sounds exactly like Harry,” Ron manages to choke out, his face pale beneath his riot of freckles. “Bloody fool.”

Luna, it turns out, was hit by flying debris rather than the curse itself. Meaning she was injured, but able to be healed. She’s being kept for observation and a series of potions, but is going to be fine.

It’s Harry, they’re told, who took the brunt of the curse, straight on.

“What was it?” Bill asks.

The Auror shakes his head. “Bit of a muddle, the survivors’ testimonies. From what we’re cobbling together, it’s unlike anything we’ve seen. A suicide curse, we’ve managed to confirm.”

Molly lets out a gasp.

“Meaning Rowle is dead?” Bill asks.

“Yes. The curse clearly went for maximum collateral damage to judge from the damage to the street, but it was focused on Mr. Potter as the target. A life for a life.”

“But it didn’t kill him,” Molly says, grabbing Bill’s arm.

“No. But…”

“But what?” Ron snaps.

“The Healers still haven’t managed to neutralize the curse.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning it’s still trying to...finish the job.”

The other Auror shakes his head, letting out a humorless huff. “Rowle must have thought Avada was too quick and neat. This one takes its time.” He winces, seeming to remember who he’s talking to as Molly lets out a sob.

For Ginny, it all feels far, far away, like someone else’s memory, someone else’s mind.

_This is not me._

“But that’s good,” Hermione says, “it means they can stop it. That there’s time. They _can_ stop it, can’t they?”

The two Aurors share a look, doubt clear on their faces. “They’re trying. Using every potion and charm there is to get ahead of it.”

Hermione frowns, shaking her head. “But then we should research, find something—”

The Auror raises his hand as if to placate her. “They have the absolute best people working on this.”

“Hermione’s the best people!” Ron insists, stepping up next to her.

“No one is disputing Hermione’s intelligence, Ron,” Bill says. “But she’s hardly trained in dark curses or healing, is she?”

Even Ron can’t argue with that. “Can we see him?” he says instead.

“They’re working on him, practically every Healer in the country,” the Auror says. “You’d only be in the way.”

“But—” Ron tries to push.

Bill puts a hand on his shoulder. “Ron. Let them do their job. Let them save him if they can.”

 _Oh, god_ , Ginny thinks, collapsing back on a seat. It takes everything she has just to keep breathing. 

Time loses all meaning as Ginny sits. Sits and tries to think and tries not to think about anything at all. She should probably be planning, finding a way to fix this. People to talk to, avenues before her, but her brain is utterly blank and smooth and no thought lingers long enough to _mean_ anything.

Hermione frets and paces, and Ron sits utterly still, jaw set and hard. Occasionally they snap back together, his stillness absorbing her panic as they sit with heads lowered together, hands touching and comforting. Everyone walks softly around them, these two people who are the closest thing Harry has to family, respectful of their grief and panic.

 _What about mine?_ some distant, dangerous voice inside of Ginny wants to rail.

“Ginny?” Molly asks.

She sucks in an unsteady breath, lifting her eyes to her mother with great effort. It all bubbles and surges inside of her, her skin feeling thin and stretched. If Molly asks, she’s going to tell her. She’s going to pour it all out and maybe start screaming.

“Mum,” she says, voice wavering.

Molly touches her arm, eyes still on Ron and Hermione, face drawn. “Do you think you could find something to eat or drink for everyone?”

Ginny stills, blinking in confusion. “Drinks?” she echoes.

Molly pats her leg absently. “Thank you, dear.”

Yes. Right. Be helpful, Ginny. This has nothing to do with you.

“Of course,” Ginny finds her mouth saying.

She leaves. Like she has no right to be there in the first place.

She has to walk by the public waiting room and it is crowded with people—the curious, the bereaved, the opportunistic. There is already a large pile of flowers building up on one side of the room. Candles. Messages. Like the whole wizarding world owns Harry—his pain, his _life_. Like he’s some _thing_ rather than a person.

His face rises up in her mind, the last time she saw him, smiling, teasing. His lips against hers.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god._

She vaguely hears someone call her name, but doesn’t stop walking because if she does, she’s going to explode.

Someone runs up to her, grabbing her arm and pulling her around. “Gin.”

She automatically starts to shake them off, only to realize that it’s Tobias standing there regarding her and the fight immediately drains out of her.

He takes one look at her face and steers her into the first empty room he can find. Closing the door behind them, he casts a few quick spells, light filling the space and all sound cut off from the outside.

“Arthur just told me,” he says.

Ginny sucks in deep breaths, fighting the urge to pace the small space, hands rubbing up and down her arms.

Tobias watches her warily. “Is he…?”

The vicious voice in her head happily finishes the sentence for him. Disfigured? Dismembered?

_Dead?_

Ginny feels something inside her snap. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know! I don’t know _anything_ ! I’m just sitting there and no one knows, no one has any idea, and I’m supposed to go fetch tea and be _helpful_ and he’s—” Her voice fails her, words cracking and splitting and she doesn’t even know what she’s saying anymore. What more there can possibly be to say.

Tobias grabs her shoulders. “He’s going to be okay, Gin,” he says. “He’s going to be okay.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “You don’t know that.”

“Sure I do,” Tobias says. “He’s too arrogant and stubborn not to be. Probably thinks the world can’t survive without him.”

Ginny blindly clutches at his shirt and tries to laugh, but all that comes out is a sob. He drags her in against his chest as she cries the tears no one thinks she has the right to shed.

“I don’t…I don’t know how to do this,” she confesses, feeling herself floundering in a way that is completely foreign, utterly disorienting.

“Like everything else, Gin,” he says, hand firm against the back of her head. “You just do it.”

Half an hour later, she returns to the waiting room with tea and biscuits that remain untouched to grow cold and stale.

She sits with her hands in her lap and waits.

* * *

It’s one of the longest nights of Ginny’s life. It’s like an echo of that terrible night in Grimmauld waiting to hear if their father would survive the mysterious snake attack. She wonders how her mum could have been that brave, never letting any of them see her fear.

In the stillest part of the night, Ginny walks down the hall.

Inside the room Luna is sleeping, her father snoozing in the chair next to her. Neville and Hannah sit nearby, chairs pulled up close to one another. They look up at her as she enters, faces drawn yet stubbornly hopeful.

For a moment, it could be two years ago, the setting swimming in Ginny’s vision—the smell of the Room of Requirement, the fear, the narrowing, inescapable walls. The not knowing.

“Have you heard anything about Harry?” Neville asks, popping up to his feet.

Ginny sucks in a breath, focusing ruthlessly on the present. “No,” she says, crossing over to the foot of Luna’s bed.

Her face is bruised, hair tangled, but her breathing also slow and steady.

“Is she in much pain?” Ginny asks.

“No,” Hannah says, voice soft. “She was awake earlier. She seemed fine. Just worried about Harry. She said he saved her.”

Ginny grips the footboard, knuckles white as she squeezes hard.

“There hasn’t been any word at all?” Neville presses.

She shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak. 

“Everything was supposed to be okay now,” Hannah says.

Ginny closes her eyes.

“How are Ron and Hermione?”

Ginny shakes her head.

“Are you okay?” Hannah asks, eyes intent on her face.

“I should get back,” Ginny says, needing to leave, needing to be anywhere but here with them.

She doesn’t want comfort. She doesn’t want questions she can’t answer, or people looking to her as if she can solve this. As if she can do anything at all.

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” she says and then flees. 

Back in the waiting area, Ginny sits ramrod straight in her chair, convinced that if she so much as bends in the slightest, all will be lost. If she blinks too long or lets any thoughts enter her mind. So she sits, perfectly still, like every bit of energy in her body can somehow keep him here. Like she can will the desired outcome into existence.

And so the night slowly passes, Ginny sitting like a stone. Like she’s made of solid ice.

Near dawn Kingsley arrives, breaking everyone out of their expectant torpor, and for a moment Ginny fears the absolute worst, because _why is he here_? The Minister himself? _Oh, Merlin, please no—_

She’s on her feet along with everyone else, heart in her throat. 

“It was touch and go for a while there,” Kingsley says, face grim. “But Harry has finally stabilized.”

“Oh, thank god,” Hermione says, falling forward and breaking into tears.

Ron wraps his arms around her, tears in his own eyes.

Kingsley gives them a kindly, but exhausted smile. “You should be able to see him in the next few hours.”

Everyone is hugging and laughing with the release of long-held tension and horror.

Ginny’s body is still rigid and humming. “I’ll go tell the others,” she says, not particularly caring if anyone hears her. 

Around the corner, she stops, leaning back against the nearest wall. Sliding to the floor, she doesn’t even bother trying to stop the tears pouring quietly down her face.

* * *

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

Harry doesn’t know where he is or what is happening, but that of all things is very clear. He can’t feel his body. But no, he feels it, more or less, he just can’t _move_ it.

God, why can’t he move?

His heart thunders away, a solid throb keeping tempo in his head, and now the pain is making itself known. A shaky breath heaves out of his lungs and that just intensifies it.

“Please try to remain calm, Mr. Potter,” someone says.

It’s a witch, leaning over him, a bright glare of light behind her, but has no idea who she is and there are others, he realizes, and he’s supposed to somehow be _calm_?

“You’re at St Mungo’s,” she continues, voice so steady and matter-of-fact and that only makes it all worse. “There was an accident. Do you remember?”

An accident? He tries to rack his brain, to think through the pain, and with great effort he can remember being in Diagon Alley. Walking. Yes. He was going somewhere. Talking with Luna? Yes, that was it. Talking to Luna and then--

The sounds and smells and horrible flash of light rush back. Screaming. There was screaming.

He tries to open his mouth, but his jaw just won’t move.

“How is the pain?”

He ignores the question as irrelevant, more focused on getting his mouth to just fucking _work_.

“L--l,” he manages.

“What?” she asks, leaning closer.

“L-luna,” he slurs, more unintelligible noises than a name, but, god, is she okay? What about the other people?

“Did he say Luna?”

“It’s his girlfriend, I think.”

“Tough gig,” someone says, only to be hushed.

The witch leans back into view. “Miss Lovegood is fine, Mr. Potter. Minor injuries. Already recovering. We’re more concerned with you at the moment.”

Harry closes his eyes, trying to be relieved, but she’d still been hurt.

“How is your pain?” she insists yet again.

He is desperately trying not to think about it, because that wrongness is still there beneath the awful numbness.

In the next moment, something changes. At first a lifting, a relief, like a potion taking effect, only then something thick and oily and snakelike twists and moves from _inside_ him, like something sliding free and, god, it’s not relief, it’s deeper, wrenching pain and he’s ripping wide open.

A scream builds and builds in his ears, voices nearby loud and urgent and he has no idea what is happening, can’t do anything to help, too lost in the inescapable pain.

The cry abruptly cuts off just as warm, metallic liquid climbs his throat and he realizes it was him making that sound all along.

“Get Willard back in here! Now!”

“We need another blood replenishing potion.”

“Can you recast the charm? Why isn’t it holding?”

“It’s not--”

“He’s not breathing!”

He’s choking, he can’t breathe, everything lost in the rush of his heart beating and straining in his ears, the tidal wave of panic, hands on him and voices and something so very very _wrong_.

“Hold on for me, Mr. Potter. Just keep fighting. Don’t let this thing win.”

His last clear thought is that he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be fighting.

* * *

Arthur arrives in the waiting room shortly after Kingsley leaves.

Tobias is right on his heels, hefting a large basket of food. “Contraband,” he says. “So you don’t have to eat the horrid hospital food.”

“Oh, Tobias,” Molly says, getting up and patting his arm. “That is so sweet of you.”

Arthur hugs Molly, both of them just clinging for long moments, and Ginny finds she has to look away.

Tobias settles next to Ginny, holding out a plate. “You should eat.” 

“I’m not hungry.” And it’s true. Her body still feels distant. No pangs of hunger or exhaustion or anything. Just numb.

“Try,” he insists, pushing it into her hands.

She does as she’s told, mostly because she can’t rouse the energy to argue.

He’s eventually content she’s eaten enough, taking the plate from her. They sit, neither of them speaking.

A loud shout echoes down the hall, Ginny jerking awake, not having realized she’d dozed off against Tobias’ shoulder in the first place.

There is more yelling, healers and medistaff darting past the open door.

“Potter,” she hears yelled at least once.

She must almost surge to her feet because Tobias’s hand is on her shoulder, keeping her in her seat.

Ron is the one to rush to the door. “What’s happening?” he demands.

One of the Aurors reappears, pushing Ron back into the room. “Just wait. I’ll go see.” He pulls the door shut behind him.

“Just wait?” Ron says. “Is he mad?”

Bill crosses over, touching Ron’s shoulder, Hermione sitting stiffly with her untouched plate on her lap.

Tobias’ hand slips into Ginny’s, squeezing hard.

Both Aurors eventually return with a Healer in tow, but for the life of her, Ginny can’t say if a minute has passed or a year.

“What is it?” Ron demands, surging to his feet. “What’s happened?”

“We had a small set back,” the Healer says, voice endlessly calm even as her hair is half escaping her bun, flyaway curls framing her face as if she’s spent far too much time over a cauldron. She looks as exhausted as anyone else, and Ginny wonders if she’s been working on Harry for the last 12 hours straight.

“Meaning what?” Hermione says, coming to stand next to Ron.

“Everything is fine now,” the Healer assures them. “We just had to make a few…adjustments.”

“Adjustments?”

The Healer glances at the Aurors as if for permission, and one of them wearily nods his head. “This curse is...not one any of us have ever seen before. In the absence of a proper counter-curse, we’ve instead isolated it from Mr. Potter. Suppressed his magic so it will have no source to drain from. This has weakened it considerably, and it continues to weaken with every passing moment. We simply need to contain and isolate it to...minimize any further damage to Mr. Potter’s body."

“But something happened,” Ron presses.

She nods. “It worked its way around our containment spells in a way we didn’t expect. We’re still learning the scope of the curse. But we know exactly what to look for now. It shouldn’t happen again.”

Her unspoken uncertainty is in no way comforting, something beginning to climb Ginny’s throat, and it isn’t panic or grief or worry. It’s rage.

Sheer burning anger at this evil curse, and Thorfinn fucking Rowle, and the bloody Aurors not doing their jobs and keeping him safe, and the whole sodding wizarding world, that asks and asks and takes from Harry, only to demand more. For Harry facing everything he has, surviving everything he has only for this. In a time of _peace_.

But there will never really be peace.

“Gin,” Tobias says, voice low, fingers digging in on her arm.

The lamp on the table next to her is shaking, just a barely audible rattle, and she realizes this is her. She hasn’t lost control like that since she was a little girl.

Closing her eyes, she breathes out a deliberate breath, searching out her training and her walls and ruthlessly slamming them back in place.

_A true Slytherin never lets their emotions undermine their control._

“He is stable and resting,” the healer is saying somewhere in the distance. “We are going to do four more hours of very careful monitoring, and it’s best if there aren’t visitors underfoot.”

Ron makes noise about that, but Ginny stops listening.

“I’m going to rest for a little bit,” Ginny says to Tobias, pulling away from him to sit in one of the armchairs. Curling up so her head is cushioned on the arm, she closes her eyes and focuses on her training--this part of her she hoped never to need to rely on again.

* * *

People file in and out of the room that afternoon. Other Aurors, various Ministry figures consulting with Arthur and Percy and Bill. Fleur goes to keep Andromeda updated, none of them wanting to expose Teddy to all of their worries by bringing him here. Even McGonagall and Hagrid appear at once point.

“They still aren’t letting us in to see him,” Molly informs them. “But I know he would be so happy to know you both came by.”

They linger a while, but by the time the healer returns in early evening, the room is once again down to just the immediate family, even Tobias having left after one firm nod from Ginny to assure him that she is fine.

“Mr. Potter is ready for you to see him. He may not be completely lucid, and you will need to keep it brief.”

Ron pops up to his feet, but they don’t immediately get to go. First the healer carefully explains exactly what to expect, what he will look like as if to prepare them. Ginny tries to listen stoically to the clinical explanation of Harry’s injuries, but after she hears ‘massive internal injuries’, she lets the details wash over her.

_He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine._

More than anything, she finds herself wishing Smita were here.

Of course, hearing about his injuries is one thing, seeing it in person is something else entirely. The group of them ease into the room, a bed set in the middle of the space surrounded by potion stations and carts covered with texts and scrolls.

Somewhere in the tangle of things is Harry.

He looks awful. Completely and utterly awful.

If this is what stable looks like, she can’t even imagine what he looked like before.

His face is covered with a large blooming bruise on one side, the rest of his skin nearly translucent, sunken in, looking grayish in places. His middle is thick with bandages and poultices, the air clogged with the competing smells of potions and astringents, an entire array of potions equipment bubbling away on a nearby table.

She wants to throw up.

They all stare in horror at the scene in front of them.

George is the first to speak. “I guess the Boy Who Lived grew up into the Man That Can’t Be Killed.”

From the bed, the barest twitch of Harry’s lip is the only sign he’s heard.

That seems to break the tension though, the horrified stillness, Hermione and Ron rushing over to either side of the bed, their words filling the space.

“Harry! We were so worried!”

“Mate, I thought you were done with excitement. This isn’t exactly the way to go about it.”

Ginny stays near the door, her body frozen in place as she struggles to keep everything at bay, to keep her emotions under check. Still, she knows that if Harry so much as looks at her, she’s going to shove her way past her family and crawl into that bed with him, damn the consequences.

She stands there waiting and waiting, but he never looks up. Never says her name. Never reaches for her.

Her knees are beginning to fail her just as the healers start to spear them with unhappy looks, clearly not pleased with the crowd.

“I’m going to look in on Luna,” she says to no one in particular and flees.

* * *

Harry wakes again to the sound of friendly chatter, the Weasleys apparently having lingered in defiance of the medistaff’s clear orders. 

“Hey,” Ron says from next to his bed. “You dozed off again.”

Harry doesn’t bother trying to make an apologetic expression, his face still feeling two sizes too big and like it might rip in half in the attempt. He hasn’t even attempted trying to speak, content to let Ron fill in the silence with prattle, to hear his assurances that Luna’s fine, that he’s even been in to see her himself just to be sure.

Harry tries to let this reassure him, just like knowing the Aurors have put a protection detail on her just in case, but the fact that she needs it at all eats away at him.

The medistaff eventually decide to put their feet down, almost forcibly throwing the Weasleys out, telling them firmly that they can return tomorrow during normal visiting hours.

Harry has never been more thankful for arbitrary rules in his entire life.

He’s very happy to see them, to hear their voices and the distractions they bring, but it’s hard to keep it together with them here constantly hovering. He’s felt a lot of pain in his life, but this is by far the worst, like some living and breathing creature is trying to tear him apart from the inside. He’d gladly take a few rounds of the Cruciatus rather than this. Trying to hide that is almost more exhausting than just feeling it.

He thinks Molly recognizes that, even if no one else does. She drops a gentle kiss on his forehead and says, “Sleep well, Harry. We’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

He tries his best to smile at her in thanks, his face more than likely not cooperating.

Hermione frets a bit, not wanting him to be left alone. As if the hallways outside aren’t crawling with Aurors and medistaff. Besides which, he’s going to spend the rest of the night in a potion-induced haze that he is really looking forward to. He’s not going to know if someone is here or not.

Ginny, like all evening, is hovering just around the edges. He catches flashes of her as she runs errands for everyone, taking care of everyone. Rarely still for any period of time.

He doesn’t know if she is keeping her distance for her own feelings, or is just waiting for some sort of signal from him that he wants her near. Regardless, he’s thankful for it. Mostly because if he so much as looks at her, he’s going to give everything away in a moment. Not just his feelings for her, but his composure, this tenuous act that everything is fine. He thinks he may completely break down and has no interest in doing so. It’s easier not to think about what’s happened if she isn’t looking at him.

So he doesn’t reach for her, doesn’t say her name, and she doesn’t come anywhere near him.

He reminds himself that this a good thing as she leaves with everyone else and the panic starts swelling in his throat. The medistaff bring in a series of potions then, and he gratefully takes them, letting them pull him down into oblivion. No more room for thoughts or worries or pain or anything but blackness.

* * *

Harry wakes in a disoriented sweat. He lets out a shuddering breath, feeling the press of dark dreams or maybe just the unsettling effect of a myriad of competing potions. His body is heavy and dull, the pain a quiet underlying roar.

 _You’re fine_ , he tells himself. _It’s fine._

Around him, the room is dim and quiet, and he tries to relax back into sleep, will himself insensible again, but his body is buzzing with a strange sort of adrenaline that leaves him jittery and all he can think about is how exposed he feels right now, how weak and useless. He has no idea where his wand is, let alone if he could use it.

He gingerly turns his head to the side, considering calling for a mediwitch to ask for more potion when the air shimmers as someone pulls off an invisibility cloak he realizes must be his own. Because despite the time of night and an impressive level of security, somehow Ginny is sitting in the chair next to his bed. She’s here.

Of course she’s here.

She’s up on her feet and moving towards him. “Harry,” she says, voice rough.

He looks up into her face and it’s just as bad as he thought it would be, the way everything seems to strip away. He feels tears trailing down the side of his face and can’t bring himself to care.

“Do you need me to get someone?” she asks.

He shakes his head, only to hiss in pain.

“I’ll find a mediwitch,” she says, starting to pull away.

“You,” he manages to get out through the pain in his jaw. “Just…you.”

“Harry,” she murmurs again, stepping closer, her fingers a feather-light touch on his face, his shoulder. She looks like she wants to crawl up on the bed with him, and if he weren’t sure it would probably kill him he’d want that too.

She settles for holding his hand in both of hers, lowering her face to it.

“You’re okay,” she whispers against his fingers, voice fierce and unbending. “You’re going to be okay. I won’t allow it to be any other way.”

He doesn’t waste time wondering how she managed to sneak in, whether that is just her scary resourcefulness or the Aurors’ incompetence, just holds her hand as tight as he can manage and breathes in the knowledge that she’s here. That she’s safe and whole.

All he can think is thank god she wasn’t there. That she wasn’t walking with him in Diagon Alley. He doesn’t want anything to happen to her because of him. He loves her far too much to ever let that happen.

The thought swirls dizzyingly in his mind, her hands soft and comforting enough to allow the potions to reach out and pull him back under.

When he wakes in the morning, she’s gone.

* * *

Ginny sneaks back to the Burrow before anyone wakes. Stowing Harry’s invisibility cloak in her room, she falls into bed without bothering to change. She sleeps in as long as she dares, hoping everyone will be too distracted to notice or care.

When she goes downstairs, the kitchen is empty, just the remains of breakfast still warm on the stove. She fills a plate and sits at the table. The morning newspaper is spread across the table, covered with sensational headlines.

DEATH EATER ATTEMPTS TO ASSASSINATE POTTER

HERO’S LOVE CAUGHT IN CROSSFIRE

Underneath is a picture of Diagon Alley, rescuers swarming over the enormous crater in the street where Harry and Luna had stood.

Ginny feels her food turn to stone in her stomach. She flips the paper over to escape the image, only to find another beneath the fold. This one is of her family arriving at hospital. She sees herself in the background standing erect and still, her eyes cold as a glacier, trained sharp like a curse on the camera capturing her. She thinks she maybe sees it there for the first time, what people find terrifying about her. She finds it terrifying for an entirely different reason.

“Oh, good morning, dear.”

Ginny straightens, looking up to see her mum walk into the kitchen. “Hey,” she says, voice casual despite the lava in her stomach.

Her mum gives her a distracted smile, hand patting her on the shoulder.

Everything feels so rough and raw that her mum’s casual indifference is a gift. She considers how much worse it would all be if her mother knew. It’s bad enough that she lost it in front of Tobias. She can’t afford to that again. She needs to be better.

“Where is everyone?” Ginny asks.

Molly collects up the papers, tidying the into a pile. “Ron and Hermione are at St Mungo’s. Everyone else is in Diagon helping with the rebuilding.”

Ginny nods, expecting as much. “I could go over to hospital and see if they’d like a break.” Like it’s an option rather than a certainty. She has zero intention of going anywhere other than back to St Mungo’s. 

“Thank you, dear. I’ll pack a basket.” Molly sighs, giving her an exhausted shake of her head. “I don’t know what we’ll do without you.”

Ginny feels her stomach clench. She’s supposed to catch a portkey back to Ireland tonight. She has practice first thing in the morning. Her last week of mandatory training. She shows up, or she loses her spot.

No one is going to care that her boyfriend, whom no one knows she is dating, was almost killed.

Ginny bites down hard on the inside of her lip. “I’m just going to run up and get changed.”

Molly nods, already at the counter, gathering things to go in the basket.

In the shower, Ginny allows herself a good long cry and when she’s done she thinks she can do it. Thinks she can trust herself enough to walk into that hospital room, approach his bed, and speak to him like she isn’t in horrible danger of giving into this roiling weakness.

When she arrives, the Aurors are agitated, giving her a thorough check before letting her go inside. They even go so far as to make Ron ask her a personal question to prove her identity.

“They seem a little tense,” Ginny observes, easing into the room and setting down the thoroughly searched and scanned basket.

“Apparently one of the guards was Confunded last night,” Hermione says, looking horrified to think that someone might have tried to come after Harry again. 

Ginny looks over at Harry to find him watching her. She wasn’t sure if he would even remember her being here last night, but there is a clear question in expression as he squints across the room at her, as if to confirm his suspicions that it was her, not some second attempt on his life.

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. She has no regrets.

He looks a bit better. Well, actually, no. He looks just as awful as ever, even worse in the brighter midday light. But he seems steadier, a bit more alert.

“Feel up for any food?” Ron asks as he digs through the basket.

“I’d rather have my wand,” Harry says haltingly.

It’s a relief to hear he can actually string more than a few words together now, even if it’s still clearly painful for him.

“You heard the Healers, Harry,” Hermione says. “They don’t want you doing any magic. It’s too dangerous until you rebuild your strength.”

Harry’s expression is mulish, and Ginny can almost hear him thinking _Well, that’s exactly why I bloody need it._ She can imaging lying helpless in this bed is his greatest fear come to life.

“Have they said how long you’ll have to wait?” Ginny asks.

Harry shakes his head, his eyelids drooping, and he twitches, like catching himself on the edge of sleep.

“He took a pain potion right before you got here,” Hermione says to Ginny in an undertone.

To judge from how drawn his face looks, the deep lines creasing his forehead, he’s in plenty enough pain to need it. He looks back over at her, like he doesn’t want to miss this time with her.

“Don’t worry,” Ginny says, voice light, “if you get boring by passing out, I’ll stay and keep Ron and Hermione company.” She sits in a chair, settling in for the long haul.

 _I’m not going anywhere_ , is the unspoken promise.

Harry still fights it for a bit, but eventually dozes off, Hermione and Ron working their way through the food in the basket, the three of them chatting aimlessly for the next hour.

“What time is your portkey?” Hermione asks.

Ginny looks down at the bed, noticing Harry’s hands clenching against the sheets. “I was thinking of staying. It’s just practice after all.”

Ron frowns. “Aren’t you still on probation?”

She shrugs. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Well, either way, do you have time for us to pop out for a coffee?” Hermione says.

“Sure,” Ginny says.

Hermione looks at Ron. “Maybe just a quick walk too. You know, just to stretch our legs.”

Ron doesn’t look particularly convinced, but doesn’t argue with her either.

“No problem,” Ginny says. 

The door has barely closed behind them when Harry speaks.

“I’ll throw you over my shoulder and walk you back to Ireland if I have to,” he says, his voice horribly weak despite the threat.

“The great Harry Potter can walk on water now, can he?” she tries to tease, but her voice is shaky at best as she turns to look at him.

“Ginny,” he insists, his gaze intense in a way his voice doesn’t manage.

She feels the press of tears, shaking her head. 

He reaches for her, and she takes his hand, lowering her head near his on the pillow. “You’re not going to throw away your dream because of me, Ginny. Please. I couldn’t live with that.” He’s nearly out of breath by the time he finishes.

She closes her eyes. “How am I supposed to go knowing you’re here like this?”

“I’m fine,” he insists, stubborn despite how garbled his words are.

“You can barely talk!” Not to mention he’s wandless. Not to mention they said he was fine once before and that hadn’t been true at all.

“I’m _going_ to be fine. Right?”

It’s what she promised him. That he would be okay. “You are,” she says, squeezing his fingers. “Of course you are.”

His hand touches the back of her head. “Promise me you’ll go.”

“Harry.”

“ _Promise_ ,” he says, words starting to sound pained, and how is she supposed to argue with him like this?

“I promise,” she says, voice thick. 

His body relaxes, breathing slowly evening out. “It’s only a week,” he murmurs.

“Five days,” she corrects. That still feels like it might as well be lifetimes.

“Even better.”

She lifts her head, looking at his face, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead that is slicked slightly with sweat. “This is not how I wanted this weekend to go,” she says.

“No?” he asks.

She shakes her head.

“How should it have gone?” he asks, voice barely a whisper.

“ _Very_ differently.”

“Just…talk to me, will you?” he says, clearly struggling. “I want to hear you.”

She nods, settling back down next to him, wishing she could get closer, hold him. She spends the next five minutes spinning tales of an imaginary weekend with broom rides and taking Teddy to the park and eating ice cream and hours spent locked away in his room.

His head lists towards hers like whatever small energy he had is now depleted.

Someone knocks on the door, giving Ginny just enough time to sit up. As it opens, Harry pulls his hand from hers.

There is a collection of healers and medistaff, including what look like some students in training.

“Time for another round, Mr. Potter,” a healer says cheerfully.

Ginny instantly doesn’t like her. An impression only reconfirmed as Ginny sits on the other side of the room and watches the healer give Harry five separate potions and recast some incredibly complicated binding charms, but all while thoroughly explaining each step and talking over Harry’s body like he’s some interesting experiment rather than a person.

The only fortunate thing is that Harry falls asleep halfway through. Ron and Hermione return just as they finish.

“Bloody circus,” Ron says, like this is not the first time today this display has happened.

Harry remains solidly asleep for the rest of the afternoon.

They sit quietly, Hermione pulling out a book while Ron dozes in a chair, his feet kicked up on the end of Harry’s bed. Ginny just sits and watches her precious last few hours bleed away, feeling more and more tense.

Ginny glances once again at the clock when she only has fifteen minutes left until she really has to head back to the Burrow. Harry still hasn’t so much as stirred.

“Ron?” Hermione says.

“Yeah?” he says, opening one eye to look at her.

Hermione tucks a strand of her hair back impatiently, looking frazzled. “Do you think you could get me a tea? I don’t think I’ll make it through this without it.”

“Sure, love,” Ron says with an easy smile. “One tea and something sweet too, yeah?”

“Is that for me or you?” she asks, lips twitching.

He presses a kiss to the top of her head and then looks over at Ginny.

“Want anything?”

Ginny shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he says, nearly bounding out of the room and clearly happy to have something to do other than sitting around.

There’s five minutes left when Ginny resigns herself to leaving without getting to say goodbye. “I’m going to have to go,” she says, getting to her feet.

Hermione looks up from her book, something a bit piercing in her gaze. “Your portkey?”

“Yeah,” Ginny says. “This week _is_ mandatory. And there’s not much that needs to be done here, is there?”

“No, I suppose not,” Hermione says. She absently flips a page back and forth for a moment. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How things just go on, even when it feels like everything is different?”

Ginny looks over at Harry, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. “Yeah. Life carries on.” If they are lucky. If they are very, very lucky.

Hermione gets up, giving her a hug. “See you at the end of the week. I’ll tell Harry you said goodbye.”

Ginny nods. “Thanks.”

She crosses over to the bed to collect the empty basket from the table, pausing to watch Harry as he slumbers on. Standing with her back to Hermione, she gently runs her hand through his hair, sliding down to press gently over the reassuring thud of his heart.

“See you soon, Harry,” she says.

He doesn’t so much as stir.

She glances back to see Hermione is once again engrossed in her book, and leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, not really caring who sees what.

Walking out, she doesn’t look at Hermione, and Hermione doesn’t look up from her book.

* * *

Leaving Harry is one of the hardest things Ginny has ever done, but she has one more week of mandatory training and no reason to stay. At least not one anyone is aware of. Harry is stable, and she knows he would kill her if she blew this chance.

She tries to tell herself that keeping busy is the best thing she can do. So she puts all her anger and fear and uncertainty into her practices and counts the hours until the weekend, exhausting herself in an attempt to make time pass quickly as possible.

Tuesday at lunch, someone calls out to her.

“Weasley! You’ve got an owl.”

One of the trainers dumps a letter on the table next to her plate. Ginny immediately recognizes Hermione’s loopy script. She rips it open, noticing that the parchment is wrinkled like it’s been roughly handled.

_Ginny-_

_Hope your practices are going well. We’re all looking forward to having you back in England for the holidays._

_Had a bit of a scare today. The curse apparently worked its way past one of the binding spells again. It was horrible, Harry just going ashen mid-sentence, and then starting to scream. I thought I had seen dark magic, but this curse, it’s the most horrible thing I have ever seen._

_Don’t worry, the medistaff were quick to intercede, putting the spells back in place, but we’re all a bit shaken up. Even if they say the curse is far weaker now and it definitely shouldn’t happen again, it was still in—_

The quill seems to slip, the writing stopping mid-word.

_Harry just woke up as I was writing this letter. Demanded that I read it aloud and then told me to stop exaggerating._

The writing abruptly changes to Harry’s familiar scrawl, even if much shakier than usual.

_I’m fine. See? I can even hold a quill._

_Now please go back to flying around on your broom and kicking people’s arses for those of us who are saddled with overbearing babysitters._

The last two words are scratched out, the words _loyal, caring friends_ written below in Hermione’s hand.

Ginny lets out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, getting strange looks from her teammates. She shakes her head, returning to her letter.

_As you can see, Harry is in fine temper. I think he’s in more pain than he’s willing to let on. But the medistaff do seem to think the curse is nearly depleted after that last incident. They’re even talking about letting him go home in another few days, so they must be very certain that he is finally out of the woods._

_I think I’ll sign off now and send this. See you on Saturday._

_-Hermione_

Ginny sets the letter down, her heart thudding away in her chest.

“You gonna sit there all day, Weasley?” one of the coaches shouts, and she realizes the room has emptied around her.

Abandoning her lunch, she trudges back outside, ready to lose herself in another round of drills.

* * *

They finally agree to release him on Friday morning.

Molly insists on him returning to the Burrow once there is talk of him leaving, and considering how hard it is for him to do basically anything at all, he knows it makes sense. They still won’t let him have his bloody wand, telling him the curse has affected his magical core somehow, and he needs time to let it heal before draining it again. They’re even repressing it further protectively with charms and potions, and Harry nearly loses it when he hears that, even if the rational part of his brain says they wouldn’t do it without a reason.

So he has a body that barely works and no way to compensate with magic. In the quietest moments when the pain is under control but his mind is clear, he can feel it--the hole where his magic should be.

He’s never felt more helpless.

He did, at least, with Hermione’s help, release a statement correcting once and for all the misconception of his relationship with Luna. The last thing she needs is that target on her back.

Of course, the papers just twist it into some rubbish about the attack being too much stress for the fledgeling relationship, and if Harry could fling the newspaper across the room without splitting open his side, he bloody well would. He settles for banning the sodding things from his sight, refusing to let Hermione bring any in.

He’s at least seen Luna himself now, and she does look fine. She kisses his cheek and thanks him and compliments him on how thoroughly he managed to shove her.

It’s the first smile he cracks all day. 

All of which to say that he wants out of St Mungo’s more than anything, even if it means imposing on the Weasleys. 

“Besides,” Molly says briskly, “Ginny will be done with her training tomorrow. She was planning on coming home anyway. She’s happy to help.”

He’s spent most of the week fading in and out of drugged stupors, so it’s at once felt short and endless. He still needs to see Ginny in a way he can’t properly express, like just knowing she is nearby will make everything a bit more manageable. He knows why she left. _Wanted_ her to go. It doesn’t stop him from missing her.

“Just so long as it isn’t too much trouble,” Harry mutters.

Molly shakes her head and gives him an affectionate look. “You’re family, Harry.”

And that is the end of the discussion of where he will go, Harry fighting a strange thickness in his throat.

He isn’t well enough to Apparate or Floo or even use a portkey, so the Ministry arranges cars. It means he’ll probably have to make his way through the press and onlookers he’s so far been blissfully isolated from.

On the morning of his release, he’s just finished taking a final round of potions and has been helped into a wheelchair when Ron and Hermione burst into the room.

He’s surprised to see Hermione, knowing she has work today. Ron’s job is a lot more flexible, not only because George is more than willing to cover for him, but also because he can visit during the day and work evenings and weekends while Hermione is free to be here. Meaning he’s had at least one of them here for most of his waking hours.

Something of his surprise to see both of them must show on his face, because Ron says, “Didn’t think we’d let you run the gauntlet without us did you?”

“Are there a lot of people out there?” Harry asks, still hopeful to avoid any fuss.

Ron laughs. “Just the entire bloody world from the looks of it.”

Hermione steps over, fingers tugging at his hair as she tries to tame it.

“I don’t think that’s really going to help, Hermione,” Ron says. He gives Harry an apologetic shrug. “You’re pretty hideous, mate.”

He lets out a huff. “Great.”

Once the healers give him yet another set of care instructions and finally give him the all-clear, Ron pushes him out of the room.

Fortunately they don’t go out through the main lobby and waiting room. The halls still have people moving about in them, some stopping to stare, others whispering as he passes.

As they near the exit, Harry can hear the sound of many more people, confirmed a moment later when the doors open to reveal the sidewalk and waiting car, swarms of people on either side.

Damn.

“Help me up,” Harry says.

“Harry,” Hermione says, pressing her lips together in disapproval. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He eyes the distance to the car. “It’s, what, twenty meters? I can do that.” For some reason he isn’t keen on them getting pictures of him being pushed in a wheelchair. Why it matters, he can’t even say, just knows in that moment that it does.

“Ron,” he says, holding out his hand.

Ron studies him a moment before nodding. “Sure, mate,” he says, helping lever Harry up and out of the chair.

Harry sways alarmingly and Ron wraps an arm around his back, trying to avoid coming in contact with his injuries.

“This is a terrible idea,” Hermione says.

No doubt, Harry thinks, knowing Ginny probably would kick his arse if she were here. But he’s jacked up on pain potions, so this is now or never.

Once he regains his equilibrium, legs firmly under him, or at least firm as they’ll get, he nods. “Let’s go.”

People are thronged on either side of the short path to the cars, shouting questions and encouragement, flashes of light blinding them. Halfway there, Harry feels like he’s never going to make it across the distance, his legs weak and head pounding, and the real stupidity of his rash decision becomes clear. Better they get a picture of him in a bloody wheelchair than falling flat on his face.

“We’ve been through worse,” Ron says, his arm tightening across Harry’s back.

“Ron,” Hermione scolds from Harry’s other side, arms supporting his as he leans more and more on her.

“Bellatrix’s vault,” Ron rattles off. “Umbridge’s ugly face, Hagrid’s rock cakes.” He glances at Harry, waggling his eyebrows.

Harry smiles, teeth clenching against the pain. “If it wouldn’t probably kill me, I’d laugh. I promise.”

Ron laughs for him, throwing his head back, Hermione giving them an indulgent smile.

Before Harry knows it, he’s in the car. He sleeps almost the entire ride home.

* * *

Harry shifts on the bed, trying to find a position that is remotely comfortable. He’s been lying on his back so long his bum feels like it will never stop being numb, but sitting up for too long makes his head swim, and his bloody midsection is still so sore and weak that rolling on his side is a distant dream.

At this point, less than twenty four hours after arriving at the Burrow, he’s counted each and every knot in the wood ceiling above.

He considers asking Molly for another pillow, but he doesn’t want to bother her. She already spends most of her day at his beck and call, feeding him, giving him his nearly hourly treatments, helping him with the embarrassing issue of relieving himself. Privacy is a distant dream at this point. He’s also not keen to give her another reason to fuss, let alone push another pain potion on him. At some point he’s going to have to be awake for more than a handful of hours.

He’s taken over the Burrow’s sitting room since he still isn’t mobile, that one stupid walk from the hospital having depleted him entirely. There’s a bed for Harry as well as a potion station in addition to the other jumle of equipment. Just another way he is completely taking over the Weasley’s home.

He sighs, closing his eyes.

“Everything alright, Harry?” Arthur asks from where he sits on the other side of the room, some Saturday-morning talk show rumbling quietly from the wireless.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Fine.” He reaches over to the small table dragged up next to his bed, grabbing a magazine. He still refuses to have anything to do with the bloody _Prophet_ , so Molly’s brought in a stack of ‘more appropriate’ magazine just for him, as all she has is _Witch Weekly_. Personally, Harry doesn’t find _Which Wizard_ any more scintillating.

He’s halfway through a completely ridiculous article on essential shaving charms when he hears the distinct sound of the kitchen fireplace flaring with the arrival of someone by Floo.

It’s Saturday, meaning Ron and Hermione are both going to stop by, but as much as he appreciates them keeping him company, that’s not who he’s hoping to see right now.

A moment later, he knows his wish has been fulfilled, Ginny’s voice filtering in from the kitchen. “Hi, Mum.”

“Ginny,” Molly answers. There’s a pause and then she clucks her tongue the way Harry’s used to her doing over him the last week. “What are they doing to you at that training camp? You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine, Mum,” she says, but even her voice sounds tired.

“You need some feeding up,” Molly says.

“Well, you’ll have all month to work on it.”

God, Harry thinks. An entire _month_.

“How’s the patient?” Ginny says.

“Go on in and say hello.”

She comes into the sitting room a moment later, a large bag slung over one shoulder. Her eyes immediately find him, her posture seeming to soften with something like relief, as if just from seeing him there.

“Hi,” she says.

Arthur folds his paper, getting up to greet her. “Nice to have you back, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Need some help getting settled in?” Arthur asks her, gesturing at her bag.

“You don’t have to,” she says.

“Come now, let a father do something for his daughter now and again, will you? Makes me feel a bit less useless.”

She gives him a look of affectionate exasperation, but hands her bag over all the same.

Arthur pretends to stumble under the weight of it, sending a quick wink to Harry as if to include him in the joke. Then he disappears up the stairs, thumping up the stairs with clear exaggeration.

Ginny shakes her head, rolling her eyes at her father’s antics, before turning back to look at Harry.

She crosses immediately over, leaning down to brush her lips across his forehead. “Hey.”

He reaches out for her arms, fingers squeezing. “Welcome home.”

Pulling back, she settles on the edge of his bed, fingers threading through his.

She doesn’t speak, and it’s a relief from the general barrage of stupid questions about how he feels. They just sit regarding each other for a long moment, like they are both taking their fill. He can’t help but notice that she looks almost as awful as he feels.

In the distance, Arthur’s footsteps can be heard on the stairs, and a moment later the front door opens with a slam, Ron calling out in greeting.

Harry squeezes Ginny’s fingers before pulling back away. For now, it’s just enough to know that she’s here.

She sighs, getting to her feet.

Ron and Hermione bustle into the sitting room.

“Ginny, you’re back,” Hermione says.

She nods. “Just arrived. Very happy to be on vacation.” She disappears up into her room, but not for long, returning soon enough with a book, settling into a nearby chair.

It’s immensely comforting for Harry, just having her near, even if they can’t really talk as much as he would like.

“Kingsley asked me to pass this on to you,” Hermione says, handing over a letter.

“Did he?” Harry asks, taking it from her. He’s been sending on reports and updates to Harry, but other than the confirmation that all evidence points to this being a single, isolated incident, Harry hasn’t been all that interesting in the details. Or awake long enough to focus on them anyway.

Hermione nods. “He came by my work station last evening. Caused quite the stir among the apprentices.”

Harry isn’t fooled by this weak attempt at humor for a moment. “Why not just send it by owl?”

“He knows I see you quite often,” Hermione tries to say, her voice a bit high, and her face gives it away.

“You already know what this is about,” Harry says, waving the letter.

She bites her lip, but doesn’t respond.

Knowing there’s no real way to avoid it, he glances at Ginny who has clearly been closely watching the exchange. Her head tilts, a bit like, _well, get on with it and see what it says_.

Harry opens it, scanning the contents. “They want to assign Aurors to me again,” he says, tossing it aside.

“Yes,” Hermione says, voice brisk. “Clearly there is a need.”

But there bloody wasn’t supposed to be. This was all supposed to be over.

It took a lot of persistence to finally get the Ministry to leave him alone in the first place, after all. He lets them screen his mail and put Aurors on him at large public events, but the idea of having them tail him every time he leaves his house is as stifling as ever. Not to mention using Hermione to convince him only makes him more annoyed by the idea.

Ron shakes his head. “It was one nutter and he’s, well, dead. They can’t think it’s going to happen again.”

The only way the curse worked at all, Harry’s been told, was at the cost of the life of the caster. Harry is still in awe of the amount of hatred it would take to resort to such methods.

“Maybe not,” Hermione concedes. “But why not just be cautious?”

Harry shakes his head, not really sure how to explain why it rankles, like it means he’s admitting that he’s afraid, that Voldemort’s reach is still out there. “It feels too much like letting them win.”

Ginny’s book drops to the table with a thump, and they all look over at her in surprise.

“And letting them kill you?” she asks, voice painfully even. “Does that count as a victory or a loss?”

Harry feels something in his chest go very cold.

Ginny glances at Ron and Hermione, like she’s just remembered they’re here. “Excuse me,” she says, getting to her feet and leaving the room.

Harry really wishes he could follow her.

“What’s her problem?” Ron asks, staring after her like she’s just grown a second head. “You know, besides being completely mental.”

Hermione makes a vague sound, leaning forward to pick up the discarded letter. “She’s very good friends with Luna, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, well, it’s not Harry’s fault some nutter tried to blow him up while Luna was nearby. Besides, Harry got the worst of it!”

Something settles heavily in Harry’s stomach. “I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it,” he says.

Ron shakes his head. “You’d think she was the one who almost got blown up.”

“Well,” Hermione says, voice deliberately cheerful. “Have you gotten to see Teddy yet?”

Harry is grateful for the change in topic.

* * *

Ginny throws herself into helping Molly the rest of the day, constantly in and out of the room, but never lingering. Not helped by Ron and Hermione stubbornly staying for most of the day.

When Harry wakes from an impromptu afternoon nap, Ron has finally left to work a shift at the store, but Hermione is still there, her work spread around her. There’s no sign of Ginny.

Harry clenches his jaw. “You know I appreciate you visiting, but you hardly have to sit with me my every waking and sleeping moment.”

“I don’t mind,” she says, not turning her attention from her work.

“You have _got_ to have other things to do.”

She finally does look up at him, clearly picking up on his tone. He knows he’s been far from the most pleasant person the last week, but he’s trying his best. She seems to consider and discard quite a few things to say before settling on, “Okay. But we’re coming back tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Harry agrees.

Hermione collects her things, leaning over and giving him a brief kiss on the top of his head that makes him feel about five years old. “You won’t be in this bed forever,” she reminds him.

He blows out a breath, starting to feel like a jerk. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, giving him a smile. “I _do_ have plenty of other things to do.”

Harry huffs under his breath. “Lucky you.”

“Be nice to the Weasleys,” Hermione says, giving him a prim look.

“Go away,” he says.

Rolling her eyes, she does as she’s told.

In the silence after her departure, Harry can hear the sounds of Ginny helping Molly in the kitchen. Though how much help she’s actually being is open for debate, Molly more often than not saying things like, “No, no, not like _that_!”

Arthur wanders in. “Game of chess?” he offers.

“Sure,” Harry says.

They all come into the sitting room to have dinner with Harry, the three of them leaning around the low table while Harry sits propped up against pillows. He’s just thankful people have stopped trying to feed him.

He has hopes of finally getting Ginny on her own after dinner.

“You sit with Harry, Mum,” Ginny says, picking up his plate. “I’ll do the dishes.”

Harry would be more annoyed with that if it weren’t for the way Molly sits back with an audible sigh of relief. He feels a beat of guilt that she has been putting herself through so much to take care of him. He knows she won’t let him leave. He keeps wanting to offer to have Kreacher come help, knowing he would love that, but doubts she would say yes.

He watches her sitting there, chatting away, working the problem over in his mind.

Harry deliberately sighs.

“What is it, Harry, dear?” Molly asks, looking concerned.

“Oh,” Harry says. “It’s nothing.”

She gives him a look that says she isn’t fooled.

“I was just thinking about Kreacher. I wonder if he’s doing okay.”

Across the room, Arthur’s newspaper rustles as he flips to a new page. Harry glances at him in time to catch him smiling over the edge of the paper at Harry as if he knows exactly what he is doing.

“I hope he isn’t lonely,” Harry says, lying on one more layer to play to Molly’s inherent compassion.

“Bollocks,” Molly says.

Or not, Harry thinks as he gapes at her.

“I raised seven children, Harry. I think I can manage you without the help of a House Elf.” She pats his hand. “But it’s sweet of you to offer, dear.”

Harry can hear Arthur chuckling to himself behind the paper.

He still has hopes of catching Ginny alone before she goes up to bed, but she skillfully avoids the sitting room for the rest of the evening, except to pop in to say goodnight.

“The kitchen’s all done,” she says.

Molly smiles. “Thank you, dear.”

“No problem,” she says, giving her mum a kiss. “But I am completely knackered. I’m for bed.”

Molly gives her a critical look, still apparently displeased with what Ginny’s training seems to be doing to her. Even Harry has to admit that Ginny is not looking her best. “All right. Sleep well.”

“Thanks,” Ginny says, going over to Arthur and giving him a kiss goodnight too. “Night, Dad.”

“Night, sweetheart,” he says. “Lovely to have you back.”

“Night, Harry,” she says carelessly on her way out.

“Ginny,” Harry risks, just wanting her to stop and actually look at him for a second.

She turns, her eyes staring just past him. “I hope you’re feeling better,” she says, voice light. She gives him a vaguely friendly smile and leaves.

Harry stares after her until Molly asks him if he’s feeling all right.

He forces a smile on his face. “Fine.”

* * *

Ginny tosses and turns in bed. Her dreams have been hazy but extremely disquieting all week, lingering into her waking hours. She starts awake multiple times a night, with nothing but a bitter taste on her tongue and an echo in her ears. It was a little better when she had daily practices to exhaust her, but here at the Burrow she has far too much time to think.

She would have thought that seeing Harry here, not having to wonder, would make things better, but everything only feels more unbearable.

Staring up into the dark of her ceiling, she hears a creak on the stairs. Her parents went to sleep hours ago and the only other person in the house is Harry. Who is staying downstairs in the sitting room because he can barely walk, let alone manage stairs.

It’s an old house full of creaks and groans though, which is far more likely than Harry being stupid enough to try to walk up stairs.

There’s another creak, this one followed by a soft grunt.

Ginny curses, flipping back her covers. Grabbing her wand, she darts out into the hall. Sure enough, she finds Harry a quarter of the way up the flight of stairs, his face wan and sweaty.

“Harry,” she hisses. “What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing?”

He glances up, looking relieved to see her as he leans against the wall, his hands clenched white around the bannister. “Well, I wanted to talk to you, and it didn’t seem like you were going to come to me.”

“You idiot,” she says, even as she steps forward to slip an arm around his waist and help him back down the stairs. “Mum would have kittens if she saw you.”

“Probably tie me to the bed,” Harry agrees, voice deliberately cheerful as if to cover for the way he is wincing with each step and letting Ginny bear a lot of his weight.

“I swear, Harry, you are enough to make anyone go spare,” she says, carefully levering him back onto his bed. She lifts his feet up, pulling his covers over him and pushing in the pillows behind him. When she’s sure he’s properly back in place, she stubbornly turns to leave, not particularly wanting to reward his bad behavior.

He catches her wrist. “You know I’ll just walk up the stairs again if I have to.”

She turns back to him, eyeing his arm, the way it trembles slightly. She doubts he’d be able to stand again if he tried.

“Or maybe try to Apparate,” he admits. “Not sure I could do the stairs.”

Ginny feels her anger spike dangerously. “And splinch yourself? Don’t you think your body has been through enough?” Her voice is high and shrill, even to her own ears.

“Ginny,” Harry says.

She takes a deliberate breath, covering her eyes with a hand.

“Please tell me what’s going on,” he says, giving her arm a little tug.

She blows out a breath, staring at a point somewhere near his shoulder. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Obviously something is.”

“I just…I can’t talk about this right now.” She’s too close to losing it completely.

She can feel Harry considering her. She knows he likes to handle things head on the moment they happen, but she needs time to process, to think things through.

Maybe he actually gets that for once, because he lets go of her hand.

She turns to leave, but apparently Harry isn’t quite done. “I wish you would just _look_ at me.”

“Harry,” she says, barely holding on to her temper.

“Am I really that hideous?” he pushes, relentless, and she just can’t hold it in anymore.

She spins back around. “It never even _occurred_ to you to cast that protective spell on yourself, did it?”

Harry frowns. From all accounts, he probably had a few seconds to react once he realized something was going on. He used that time to save Luna and a load of complete strangers, leaving himself completely vulnerable. To look at his face now, he still doesn’t see anything wrong with that.

“The fact is,” she accuses, feeling the panic and anger welling in her chest, “you will always put yourself last.”

“I wasn’t putting myself last,” Harry sputters, looking taken aback by her sudden attack. “There were over twenty people in that café! You don’t think twenty people’s lives outweigh mine?”

Part of her isn’t sure they do, and she doesn’t know what kind of person that makes her. Selfish at the very best. At worse… “That’s not the point,” she says weakly, dearly wishing now that she escaped while she had the chance.

“Then what is the point?” he demands, his own face flushed with anger.

“You almost _died_ , Harry! That’s the bloody point!”

There’s a sound from upstairs. They both freeze, waiting for any sign that Ginny’s shout has woken her parents. The silence stretches on, Harry eventually relaxing back into his pillows with a grimace.

Ginny paces away from the bed, willing her simmering anger back under control. She gave herself almost the entire day to get a handle on this, but here she is, falling apart anyway. She has to be better than this.

“If you want me to have the Aurors assigned, I will,” Harry says, voice quiet.

Ginny stops, looking up at the ceiling. Even an hour ago she thought that was all she wanted to hear. “No,” she says.

“No?” Harry asks, sounding incredulous as if she keeps moving the goal on him.

She sighs. “You were right. You can’t be expected to do that for the rest of your life.”

“I can’t lie and say I won’t ever put other people’s lives first, Gin.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then what _are_ you asking?”

She takes a breath and forces herself to turn and look at him, the width of the room stretching between them, and it suddenly feels like an uncrossable expanse. He’s watching her like she’s about to curse him or kick a House Elf. Or possibly just rip his heart out. Like maybe she’s deciding he’s too reckless to be with.

And part of her, the painfully, ruthlessly honest part, considers it. Forces herself to acknowledge that this will always be part of being with Harry. This worry and fear and total loss of control. She could very well lose him, not just to accident or caprice, but to his very own inflated sense of nobility. It’s a lot to deal with. Maybe too much.

“I honestly don’t know,” she admits, her voice wavering.

“Ginny,” he says, something like horror in his voice. “Just tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

She shakes her head, knowing that wouldn’t help any more than asking him to change would. Because the inescapable truth is that people don’t change. Not in the fundamentals. And Harry will always cast that spell for someone else no matter what either of them say in this room tonight.

“It’s the worst part of all of this,” she says, her voice horribly thick. “Because if you hadn’t done exactly what you did, you wouldn’t be you.”

“Ginny,” he says. “Please.”

She crosses over to him, coming to a stop next to the bed. She examines his face, confronting herself with each bruise and scab, knowing the ones hidden under his clothes are even worse.

“I don’t look at you,” she says, hesitantly reaching out to touch his face, trace the edge of the bruise yellowing his jaw, “because seeing you like this…” Her voice breaks.

He hesitantly touches her hand.

She sits on the edge of the bed, her hand wrapping tight around his. “How selfish am I? You’re the one who was almost killed, and I’m just…”

“What?”

She closes her eyes against the press of tears. “Terrified,” she whispers.

“Ginny,” he says.

She shakes her head. “What I really want is for you to promise something I know you can’t.”

“What?”

She sucks in a breath. “That you will always…be here.”

She covers her face, because here the tears are, and there’s nothing she can do to stop them. Anger was so much easier than this.

“Come here,” he says, tugging her closer like he wants her to climb up on the bed.

“Your side,” she protests.

“I couldn’t care less,” he says, tugging insistently again.

“The bed is too small.”

“Then make it bloody bigger.”

It’s awkward, but she manages to enlarge the bed so she can lie down next to him. He can’t turn towards her or twist his body, nothing more than hold her hand.

She wants him closer, wants to wrap herself around him, but this is enough for now.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she breathes into his shoulder.

His fingers tighten around hers, his chin pressing against the top of her head. “Do you think you could…”

“What?”

“Stay with me?” he asks, voice hesitant like he isn’t sure he has the right to ask. “Just for a little while?”

She closes her eyes, knowing that in her own terror, she’s been ignoring his. She remembers him that first night in hospital, his hand gripping hers so tight.

“Of course,” she says, lying her arm gently across his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Like that’s somehow a promise either of them has the power to make.


	9. Chapter 9

The water pipes groan overhead, startling Ginny into wakefulness.

“Stupid ghoul,” she mutters, her eyes feeling sticky and swollen as she begrudgingly opens them. It takes her a moment to register where she is, to reconcile with the soft light filtering through the sitting room windows. “Damn.”

All sleepiness evaporates, panic thrumming through her body as she lifts her head, and sure enough Harry is stretched out beside her on the bed. She knows she should get up as quickly as possible, but she’s stuck staring at him.

For all his face is soft in sleep, it’s horrible to look at in the light, each scratch and scab and bruise harshly illuminated, making him look terribly fragile. Her fingers curl into the sheets, chest inflating with the urge to wrap herself around him, as if to somehow protect him from the entire sodding world, to never let anyone near him ever again.

Her eyes trail down to his chest and she spends a moment watching the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.

_He’s okay_ , she reminds herself.

The ghoul hits another bend, pipes complaining rudely.

Finally forcing herself off of the bed, Ginny hopes against hope that she somehow managed to beat her mother awake. She cannot deal with the questions that would inevitably arise about her being found sleeping with Harry. On top of everything else right now, people thinking they somehow know what she’s feeling might just be the final thing that snaps her tenuous control.

Not that she’d done such a great job controlling her temper the night before, she remembers with a wince.

Blessedly there is no one in the kitchen when she peers warily into it. But any hope of making it back up the stairs without detection disappears when she hears footsteps on the flight above. Ducking back into the kitchen, she grabs the kettle, filling it with water with a flick of her wand and setting it on the hob.

“Morning, Mum,” she says as her mother appears a moment later.

“Ginny,” Molly says. “You’re up early.”

Ginny stifles a yawn like she’s just come down herself, not really needing to feign exhaustion. “I’m used to early practices.”

Molly hums noncommittally, as if trying to keep her opinions about Ginny’s career to herself. “Harry’s still asleep?”

“Dunno. Didn’t look in on him.”

Molly seems to consider her for a long moment, finally turning for the larder. “What would you like for breakfast?”

“Everything,” Ginny says, her stomach grumbling at even the thought of her mum’s cooking.

Molly smiles. “Well then,” she says, reaching for an apron and tying it on. “I suppose I’d better get started.”

Her mum bustles about in comfortingly familiar routines, and Ginny allows herself to let out a breath, to risk a look towards the sitting room as her thoughts wander back to Harry, to the things daylight has made no less complicated and painful.

_Everything will be okay_ , she tells herself.

* * *

For Harry, the weekend passes in a blur of potions and charms and visitors and his usual string of unplanned naps. He wakes only to find people have come and gone, sometimes a small pile of notes or sweets the only evidence they’ve been there at all.

A mediwitch comes out to check on him on Monday morning, declaring his progress to be quite good when Harry is stuck feeling like he isn’t getting better at all. He bites back his frustration though, not wanting to hear anyone say it could be worse. He bloody well knows that. None of that erases the fact that he spends most of his time in bed, and even worse, still doesn’t have access to his wand, the mediwitch declaring that he will need at least another week on the magic suppression potions.

All meaning that he is cranky and no doubt terrible company, and people were probably better off that he slept through their visits. He _finally_ managed to convince Ron and Hermione he wouldn’t immediately drop dead if they went back to work, that they couldn’t babysit him forever. So here he is, playing cards with Ginny. She’s been the one constant, always nearby, as if trying to prove the truth of her promise that she isn’t going anywhere.

He flatly refused to enter a chess match with her, having learned that lesson the hard way last time he convalesced at the Burrow. Instead he spends the rest of the morning teaching her a Muggle card game. It’s pretty much the one thing he’s craved all weekend: Ginny’s company. Of course, they aren’t completely alone. Molly sits in a chair nearby, knitting, meaning Harry is doing his best not to stare at Ginny or anything, but it’s difficult. Especially considering the way the skin between her eyebrows is knitted together, her expression one of deep concentration. Harry finds it more adorable than he probably should. He’s suffered enough spell damage as it is without her realizing that. Fortunately she’s paying more attention to her cards than him at the moment.

“You really don’t like being bad at something, do you?” he says.

Her gaze flicks up to him, eyes narrowing. “I wouldn’t know. I’m so rarely bad at things.”

Harry lets out a laugh, immediately regretting it, wincing as pain twinges in his side.

Ginny definitely doesn’t miss it, pausing in her movements as if closely observing him, but not pressing or hovering. Fortunately Molly doesn’t seem to have noticed.

Harry takes a few careful breaths and relaxes back into the pillows stacked behind him. He’s actually managing sitting up and going longer and longer between pain potions. Considering how fuzzy they make him feel, he’s glad. Even if the pain gets to be a bit much from time to time.

“I can think of a few things,” he says, taking another card from the top of the deck.

“What?” Ginny asks, clearly having lost the thread of the conversation.

“That you’re bad at,” he says.

Her eyebrows lift. “Oh, _really_.”

“Cooking,” he coughs under his breath, followed quickly by, “Knitting.”

Ginny is back to looking like she will gladly destroy him, and he should probably be more alarmed how much he likes that particular look.

“Maybe you should have picked a game with a different name,” she says, laying her hand down and announcing, “Gin.”

He groans, letting his cards fall to the table. “You think you’d take pity on a guy, hovering here on the edge of death.”

Her smile slips, and he would kick himself if his foot weren’t already lodged so deep in his own mouth.

She looks down at her cards, scooping them up. “You aren’t that sick.”

He watches her as she methodically collects the cards and shuffles them. “No,” he agrees, reaching forward to take the deck from her, his hand touching hers. “I’m not.”

The click of Molly’s needles penetrates his thoughts, a rude reminder that they do, in fact, have an audience. He pulls his hand away, settling back against the cushions. The very last thing he needs right now is Molly cottoning on after all. Considering how she reacted to Ron and Hermione being together, still does when they are in close quarters… He just can’t handle a reappearance of the infamous chastity wards from the beach trip.

Especially since Ginny has made a habit of coming down to see him at night. She’d been curled up in a chair near his bed when he woke the night before, bouts of strange late-night wakefulness still plaguing him. The relief he’d felt, seeing her there, was hard to explain. He’d just stretched his hand out to her, and she hadn’t hesitated to climb up with him. “I’m setting a bloody alarm this time,” she’d murmured before curling up against his side.

He needs that way too much to risk having to give it up again.

“Another round?” Ginny asks. “I’ll even let you win.”

He scowls. “I was actually hoping I could borrow Errol.”

“Of course you can,” Molly says. “It might take him a while though. He’s getting even slower these days.”

“It won’t be far. I just want to send a letter to Andromeda.”

“Oh,” Molly says. “I’ll be seeing her the day after tomorrow if you’d like me to deliver it myself.”

Harry rubs at his nose. “I was actually hoping Andromeda might bring Teddy by instead. If that’s okay.” He feels a bit awkward, just inviting people over.

Molly lowers her knitting, giving him a fondly exasperated look. “You can have anyone over that you like, Harry. You know that. But are you sure having Teddy is wise?”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

Molly’s eyes travel over his face, as if to remind him of the still visible bruises on his face. “I think seeing you like this might…confuse him.”

They’d deliberately kept him away from the hospital, which Harry understood. That whole building is scary--the sounds and smells, not to mention so many people bustling about. But it’s been eleven days since the explosion, and Harry hasn’t seen Teddy once. Other than the beach trip, this is the first time that Harry has gone a full week without seeing Teddy since he got back from Australia.

He promised Teddy he would be there. He’s not going to go back on that. No matter what.

“I think he’ll be more worried wondering where I am. I’m never away from him this long.”

Molly’s expression softens. “Perhaps, but it would really be better if you waited until the bruises on your face faded.”

“Then put a glamour on me,” Harry says, irritated to have to ask, not being able to just do it himself.

Molly makes a vague sound, like maybe his face isn’t really her real concern. “Are you sure you’re even up to handling a rambunctious toddler?”

Harry clenches his jaw, feeling inexplicably nettled by being lectured on what he should and shouldn’t do with his own godson. Like he’s being reckless when it comes to his welfare, or something.

“Harry is Teddy’s godfather,” Ginny cuts in. “Surely we can trust that he knows what’s best.”

Molly looks from Ginny back to him. “Of course,” she says in a way that makes it clear that she still thinks it’s a terrible idea.

Ginny glances at Harry. “I’ll get you some parchment.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, trying to remind himself he should be grateful rather than annoyed at needing Ginny to run interference for him.

She nods. “Of course.”

Molly disappears into the kitchen to start lunch, and it isn’t long until Ginny returns with writing materials for him.

Harry twists the quill between his fingers. “Do you think I’m being stupid?”

“You miss him. And I’m sure he misses you too.” She reaches out, fingers brushing his jaw. “And you’re no more hideous than usual.”

Her lips twitch and Harry can’t help but roll his eyes. “Way to hit a guy while he’s down,” he complains, brushing her fingers aside.

Her hand catches his, squeezing firmly. “Write your letter.”

He doesn’t actually manage to get the letter written before he dozes off, waking to realize he’s missed both lunch and Ron visiting.

“Don’t worry,” Ginny reports. “He ate your sandwich, so the visit wasn’t a total loss for him.”

Harry huffs under his breath. “Good to know.”

He eats a late lunch and writes his letter, sending it off to Andromeda on a rather fragile-looking Errol.

Molly comes in, ducking as Errol careens past her. “How does a bath sound to you, Harry?”

Harry looks up at her. “Can I? Really? I mean, I would love that.” Even if just for the change in scenery, let alone the thought of a hot soak and being thoroughly clean. Cleaning charms only go so far, not to mention the embarrassment of being submitted to them.

Molly smiles at his enthusiasm. “The mediwitch said it would be fine. If you’re sure you can make it up there.”

“I’m sure I can,” he says without really giving the three flights of stairs any thought.

Ginny stays behind to help him make the journey while Molly prepares the bath. Despite his claim, it’s a long slog and he definitely needs Ginny’s help. Harry just keeps reminding himself that it will be worth it, even when he starts leaning more and more weight on her.

“How does someone as scrawny as you weigh this much?” she mutters, readjusting her grip.

“Must be my fat head.”

Ginny laughs, and despite everything, Harry can’t help but smile in response.

Finally, finally in the bathroom, Ginny lowers him into a chair squeezed in next to the tub. He lets out a sigh of relief, grateful to have made it with no mishaps.

Molly tests the water with her finger, adjusting it with a wave of her wand before finally seeming happy with the temperature. “Okay,” she says, moving towards the door. “I’m going to strip and wash the sheets on your bed. Ginny can help you.”

“Excuse me?” Ginny says, face incredulous.

Molly puts her hands on her hips. “For goodness’ sake, Ginny. You grew up with six brothers. I would think you could handle helping the poor boy off with his socks.”

Ginny gapes as her mum bustles out, pulling the door closed behind her with a thump. “Did she really just ask me to undress you?”

Harry shakes his head, having no explanation either.

Ginny is still staring at the door. “There is definitely something going on with her.”

Harry sighs, beginning to regret refusing the last pain potion as a dull staccato throbs in his head. He gives a longing look to the warm water. “Ginny, I’ve been dreaming of getting clean for ages, can we please worry about your mum later?”

“What?” she asks, tearing her eyes from the door. “Oh. Of course.” She crosses over to kneel in front of him, starting with his socks.

“Besides,” Harry says, trying not to wince as lifting his leg makes the wound pull painfully across his ribs. “It’s not like I’m in any condition to take advantage of you.”

She looks up at him, smiling as she pushes up on her knees to reach the buttons on his shirt next. “I suppose she should worry more about me taking advantage of you.”

It’s been over a month since the eventful evening at the sports pub celebration and the rather unforgettable night afterwards. Meaning it’s been more than a month since he’s even kissed her properly, let alone anything else. And as nice as they are, the rather chaste kisses Ginny has pressed to his forehead in passing do not count. Not even remotely.

“If only,” he says, voice wistful.

Ginny’s smile widens, her hands skimming along his shoulders. He leans forward just enough to capture her lips in a gentle kiss. She pulls back after an all-too-brief moment. He tries to follow, gasping as he moves too far.

She touches his arm. “Harry?”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says through a clenched jaw, trying not to lose his temper. He’s so tired of being weak and in pain. He can’t even kiss his girlfriend without feeling like he needs a nap to recover.

Ginny doesn’t press, just finishes unbuttoning his shirt in silence. Shifting closer, she moves to part the fabric.

“Wait,” he says, realizing far too late why this is a bad idea.

“Suddenly worried about my reputation?” Ginny teases, opening his shirt only to suck in a startled breath.

It’s the first time she’s seen the damage.

His torso bore the brunt of the curse, the dark energy shattering his ribs and tearing into the organs underneath. He was lucky, he’s been told, that it hadn’t hit slightly higher and gotten his heart. Apparently there would have been no coming back from that. Even still, the skin is barely holding together, healing slowly, scar tissue and bruising stretching all across his left side.

“Ginny,” Harry says, not sure how she may react with their last fight still so fresh. That horrible moment when he thought she was going to turn and walk away—from him, from _everything_. In the scope of things, he knows the bruises on his face are nothing.

But she doesn’t stomp off or accuse him of being reckless again. Instead she splays her fingers gently across the damage, her eyes bright with some indefinable emotion.

“If he weren’t already dead,” she says, voice quiet and fierce, “I would kill him myself.”

Harry feels a chill run down his spine. “You don’t mean that.”

She lifts her eyes to his, and for a moment, she almost looks like a stranger. “And if I do?”

He stares back at her, having no idea what to say to that.

She pushes to her feet. “I’ll go get Mum to help you with the rest,” she says and paces out of the room.

He doesn’t call her back.

* * *

Ginny looks up as Harry pushes away his still half-full plate. He’s finally sitting at the table in the kitchen for meals, but this small victory doesn’t seem to have improved his mood any.

“Are you done?” Molly asks, eyeing the food on his plate.

“Yeah,” Harry says distractedly. “Thanks.”

“Maybe just a little more?” Molly presses. “You need to build your strength.”

“I’ve had enough, okay?” he says, very nearly brusque. He almost immediately bites his lip, eyes closing as he blows out a breath. His voice is deliberately calmer when he speaks again. “Really, I appreciate it. But I’m full.”

Molly pats his arm. “Okay, dear.”

He’s been tightly wound all morning, clearly anticipating today’s visit from Teddy, and no doubt second-guessing himself. Ginny tried pointing out that Andromeda wouldn’t have agreed to it if she didn’t think it was a good idea too, but that doesn’t seem to have helped much.

Of course, things between the two of them have been a little strained the last few days as well. Ginny is still embarrassed to have let her emotions get ahead of her brain when she saw the horrible damage to Harry’s body. Not that she didn’t mean it. She would have found a way to make Thorfinn Rowle pay for what he did. There is zero doubt in her mind.

But the almost horrified look on Harry’s face seems to linger.

Not that either of them have mentioned it again. They haven’t had much of a chance to, the way people are constantly trooping through the house. But she rather suspects they wouldn’t even if they did.

Ginny and her mum have just gotten Harry settled in the sitting room, the bed transfigured back into a sofa for the afternoon visit, when Andromeda arrives, Teddy in her arms.

“Hello, Harry,” she says, smiling at him. “You’re looking much better.”

“Hi, Andy,” he says. “Thanks for coming.”

Teddy’s head swivels around at the sound of Harry’s voice, bright smile on his face and hair a nice sharp lime green. He immediately reaches for Harry.

Andromeda helps settle Teddy on Harry’s lap, the two of them regarding each other.

Teddy reaches out, touching Harry’s face. “Ouch,” he says.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Ouch. But I feel much better now that I’ve seen you.”

Teddy grins, patting his hand gently against his face. “Kissy ouch.”

Harry leans in so Teddy can press a giant raspberry to his face.

Harry laughs. “Well now it’s perfect.”

He glances up, seeming to belatedly realize that he still has an audience. Andromeda is clearly used to seeing Harry with Teddy, but Molly looks like she’s about to explode over the cuteness. Ginny’s own heart is _definitely_ not melting a bit over the ridiculous display.

“Would you like some tea?” Molly asks Andromeda.

“Oh,” Andromeda asks, looking back at Teddy as if not sure if she should leave them on their own.

“I’ll stay in case Harry needs any help,” Ginny offers. “You go have a break.”

Andromeda nods, clearly in need of a little time off caregiving duties. The two women walk into the kitchen together, talking quietly.

Ginny settles down on a nearby chair. Everything goes quite well for a while, Harry reading Teddy a book and then the two of them trying to build a tall tower of blocks for Teddy to smash down with glee.

In his excitement, Teddy leaps unexpectedly, his little body slamming into Harry’s side. Harry cries out in pain, biting it back as fast as it escapes, but it’s more than enough to startle Teddy.

Ginny immediately crosses over, scooping Teddy up before he can hurt Harry more in his agitation.

“It’s okay,” Harry says, reaching out to pat Teddy even as his face has gone ashen, tears in his eyes.

Teddy clearly doesn’t buy it, ramping up into full-on crying.

Ginny bounces him a bit, touching Harry’s shoulder in question.

“I’m fine,” he grinds out.

A moment later, both Molly and Andromeda hurry into the room, Ginny snatching her hand back.

“Is everything alright?” Andromeda says.

Ginny bounces the still wailing Teddy on her hip, giving the two women a sheepish look. “Harry’s trying to teach me not to be completely hopeless with kids. Clearly I haven’t gotten there yet.”

Andromeda and Molly both relax, clearly having expected a disaster. Ginny pulls her wand out, turning to Teddy. She makes a small circle, bubbles erupting from the tip. Teddy stops wailing, watching it intently even as he continues to hiccup along, tears on his cheeks.

“You’ll get it, dear,” Molly says, looking dangerously misty to see her daughter with a child.

Ginny shakes her head, leaning closer to Teddy. “I’m pretty hopeless, don’t you think?”

Teddy is clearly more interested in the bubbles than her.

Blowing gently, Ginny sends one floating towards his nose where it pops.

Teddy flinches back, a look of surprise on his face before he starts to laugh, clapping his hands.

“We’re fine,” Ginny says, looking back at Andromeda and her mum.

“Of course,” Molly says, leading Andromeda back into the kitchen.

“Fast learner as always, I see,” Harry says, voice still a little tight.

She gives him a faint smile, moving over to sit next to him on the sofa, Teddy settling happily in her lap as she makes more bubbles.

“You’re okay?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Harry says, reaching out and catching a bubble on his finger. Teddy slaps his hand down to pop it with a joyful cackle.

“Potion?” she asks.

Harry doesn’t immediately refuse, which tells her he probably really needs one. “Could we just…wait a little while longer?”

“Yeah, okay,” she says.

After Andromeda takes Teddy home for a nap, Harry is noticeably sullen.

Ginny considers saying something as she brings him a pain potion, but isn’t sure what might help, knowing he’s probably not in the mood for logic.

Harry downs the potion and settles back on the sofa. “I think I’m going to rest a while,” he says, not quite meeting her eye.

“Sure,” Ginny says.

She spends the next hour listlessly not reading a book, wondering what she might have been able to do better, feeling vaguely like she’s let Harry down.

As much as she loves the Burrow, is grateful to be able to be here with Harry when he needs her, the house is starting to feel claustrophobic. But the idea of being anywhere else conjures a clawing sort of panic in her chest, like if she looks away, if she relaxes for even a moment, something else will happen, something she won’t be prepared for.

It makes it hard to breathe.

Shoving the book away as a lost cause, Ginny forces herself up to her room to change. Harry is still asleep when she gets back down, so she keeps going, out the front door.

Outside, dusk has just begun creeping along the horizon. Pulling on a hat and a pair of gloves, Ginny stretches methodically before jogging down the steps and front path. On the road outside, she pauses, taking in the shifting colors in the sky.

“Just go,” she tells herself.

She starts running.

At first, her body is cold and cranky, and she considers stopping more than once. She pushes on, turning down the next lane. Slowly her body warms and her stride lengthens, a calm filling her, like some heavy shell cracking and falling away from her body as she watches her breath come out in puffs, the mist rising off the marsh as she passes.

Merlin, she’s missed this. The steady pound of her feet on the road; the peaceful solitude. It’s cold, frost covering the plants, and the few puddles remaining from the last storm iced over. From the smell in the air, she thinks the first snow must be right around the corner. Just in time for Christmas.

By the time she has to stop, legs aching and lungs burning, everything feels a little clearer in her head. But it’s also a sign of how far she has let her training slip. She couldn’t go nearly as far as she should. It’s a reminder that there are other things to focus on, no matter how far away they’ve felt.

The sun has sunk completely below the horizon by the time she makes it back to the Burrow. She goes inside, finding her parents and Harry already at the table.

“There you are,” Molly says in a rush. Her eyes dart to the family clock where Ginny’s hand is changing from ‘travelling’ to ‘home’.

“Sorry, Mum,” she says. “I didn’t mean to be out that long.”

“What were you doing?”

Ginny would think her flushed and sweat-slicked skin would give it away. “Just a short run.”

“I thought you were supposed to be on holiday,” Molly says, clearly not pleased.

Ginny brushes a strand of hair back from her face, feeling sweat still trickling down her back as she works on catching her breath. “I can’t afford to fall behind, Mum. And it was just a short jog.”

“You’ll catch your death,” Molly says under her breath.

Ginny shakes her head, deciding this is not a fight she wants to pick.

“Post came for you,” Arthur says, gesturing to a small pile of letters.

“Oh, thanks,” Ginny says, scooping them up. “I’m going to pop in the shower. And then I’m going to be ready to eat half the pantry.”

She takes a shower and then reads through the letters as she dries her hair. She starts with the one from Tilly.

_Tristram’s parents seem to have finally accepted that I’m not going anywhere, that this marriage is going to happen. Only meaning that now they’re loading me down with endless reports in order to teach me everything I need to know about running an estate and I honestly thought I couldn’t hate them more than I already do, but I’ve found another hidden well of pettiness. Tristram, of course, has been trained to do this bloody stuff since birth, but his parents love to remind me that his health is poor and it isn’t fair to put this on him. Not to mention that he wouldn’t be able to do any of this anyway as ‘no self-respecting business would work with a squib’. Tristram’s been trying to explain it all to me, but honestly… Ugh. I haven’t spent a moment with my experiments in weeks and it makes me want to tear my hair out. Part of me wants to say sod the bloody estate. Let it get driven into the ground, salt the fucking earth, but this is Tristram’s legacy. I owe it to him to at least try to learn it all, to protect it. As much as I hate it. Don’t I?_

Ginny sighs, setting the letter aside. There’s another one from Nicola and one from Hannah as well.

Maybe she’s let this consume her a bit too much, no matter how understandable it is. Harry’s needed her. But he’s also getting better every day. And at some point she’s going to have to stop bracing herself for something else terrible to happen. Won’t she?

What exactly does she think might happen if she goes to visit Tilly?

Nothing, she tells herself. Nothing will happen. She’s going to wait for Ron to come for his visit tomorrow and then she’s going to go.

Harry will be here when she gets back.

Life goes on.

* * *

Harry is making his way up the first flight of stairs for the sixth time in a row, his legs trembling and sweat beading his brow. Ginny, of course, hovers just within reach. _Waiting for him to fall,_ he thinks, only to immediately feel guilty over the ungrateful thought. He supposes he should just be _thankful_ they’re allowing him to do anything other than sit in a bed.

As his recovery drags on, he’s beginning to feel like he’s going to crawl out of his skin, his temper constantly frayed, just one tiny prick of annoyance away from flaring. It seems like almost anything can set him off these days. He already snapped at Molly once this morning, and the shame of it just makes him angrier.

But it’s Ginny who inevitably bears the worst of it.

He stumbles on the next step, Ginny’s hand instantly ghosting his elbow. Before he can master the impulse, he jerks away from her, almost knocking both of them down the stairs.

“Just…don’t.”

Ginny doesn’t reply, quietly accepting his shitty behavior. It only pisses him off more. He uses the anger to force his exhausted body up the last few steps.

When he finally reaches the top, she says, “Maybe that’s enough for today.” Her voice is mild, but with a thread of steel underneath that says she’s not going to bend on this.

He feels his temper flare, turning to glare at her, cutting words held back only by the appearance of Molly at the bottom of the stairs. She takes in the scene in front of her, Harry’s breath coming out in angry puffs as he glares at Ginny, Ginny staring back with her hands on her hips and unholy fire in her eyes.

“I have to pop over to Auntie Muriel’s,” Molly says.

“What, now?” Ginny asks, looking away from Harry.

“Apparently it’s an emergency,” Molly says, lips pressing together in unspoken annoyance.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “The House Elf set the table improperly again?”

Molly shakes her head. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Ginny sighs. “Yeah, okay,” she says, like being left alone with Harry for that long is a chore she’d rather not have.

“Make sure Harry doesn’t overdo it,” Molly says, giving him an indulgent smile before she turns and leaves.

Harry wonders if he’s imagining the way Ginny looks longingly after her mother, as if the idea of an afternoon with her rather trying aunt sounds more relaxing than staying here with him.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Harry snaps as the distinctive smell of spent Floo powder wafts up the stairs.

Ginny gives him an impatient look. “I’ve never in my life met anyone more in need of a babysitter than you.”

He wants to respond to that with a scathing reply of his own, but frankly he’s too tired to fight with her, leaning back against the wall behind him instead.

They remain at the top of the stairs warily regarding each other in the pressing silence of the house. Harry’s just about gathered up enough strength to stubbornly head down the stairs again when Ginny lets out a long sigh, crossing the space between them.

He braces himself for her to take his elbow and bully him in whatever direction she thinks best, but she simply touches his face, fingers skimming his jaw.

“Harry,” she says, voice soft. “Talk to me.”

Completely against his will, he feels his indignation crumble under her touch. He closes his eyes, blowing out a breath. “I’m so tired of this. Tired of being weak. Of being in pain. Of being stuck inside this bloody house!”

She’s quiet, and it belatedly occurs to him that this is her house. He feels the anger rise again, having to feel bad about his feelings, the constant clash of guilt and annoyance. “I know I sound ungrateful.”

Ginny shakes her head. “I’m pretty tired of this bloody house myself.”

“Is that why you keep leaving?” he asks before he can keep the childish words back.

She’s been taking breaks most days now whenever he has another visitor—mostly when Ron or Hermione are here. Going to lunch with Hannah or checking in with George at the shop. One evening she even went to meet friends at a pub. Not to mention the hours she spends training.

It doesn’t seem to matter that the logical part of his brain knows he would be doing the same things if only he could, that she deserves a break. Never mind that she’s seemed more relaxed because of it, that she still sneaks down to lie with him in the dark most nights. All he can focus on is this feeling that she’s pulling away from him and he’s powerless to do anything about it.

“Maybe,” she says, her expression soft as she regards him. “But you know why I always come back.”

His shoulders drop. “No,” he says. “I have no idea why you keep coming back. Why you’re putting up with me.”

“Then you’re an idiot,” she says, looking up at him with such painful affection that even he can’t pretend he’s imagining it.

“Ginny,” he says, swamped with this feeling that he has done absolutely nothing to deserve her.

She lifts up, kissing him softly. For once she doesn’t immediately pull back, instead lingering, her body warm against his. The kiss stretches on and on in the quiet of the empty house. Not building, just gentle and warm and comforting.

She eventually drops back to her heels, but only to lean into him and hug him as firmly as she seems to dare.

“Come on,” Ginny eventually says, stepping back and taking his hands. “I think I might know just the thing you need.”

“Yeah?” he asks, feeling like she’s already given him everything he needs.

She leads him downstairs and settles him on the sofa, squeezing his fingers. “Stay here.”

Having no intention of wandering off, he leans back. He must doze, waking to the feel of Ginny’s hand on his face.

“Up you get,” she says, a thick coat and his boots tucked under her arm.

He shrugs on the coat while she kneels down to tie up his boots. He still has a hard time leaning that far over. “Just promise me you aren’t tying those together while you’re down there.”

She lets out a soft laugh, straightening up and reaching for his hand. “Come on.”

Leading him out onto the back porch, she hits him with a warming charm. “Don’t tell Mum,” she says, giving him a cheeky smile, and suddenly it feels like a jailbreak.

The sun is out, almost dazzling as it reflects off the newly fallen snow. Harry breathes in deep, and despite the stinging cold, being outside is already gift enough. Molly keeps worrying about him catching a cold on top of everything.

“Now,” Ginny says, turning a stern glance on him once they’re near the paddock. “You have to swear to me that you will tell me the second you get cold, or if you feel dizzy or anything at all hurts.”

“Ginny,” he says.

“I’m serious,” she says. “I’ll drag your sorry arse back inside right now unless you promise.”

He has a vision of her throwing him over her shoulder, definitely not putting it past her. “Okay, okay. I promise.”

She regards him a long moment as if gauging his truthfulness.

“Do we need to make an Unbreakable Vow?” he asks.

“Don’t be stupid. I have much more painful ways to punish you if you break your word.”

Somehow he doesn’t doubt that.

She disappears behind a tree, reappearing after a moment with a broom.

Harry feels his spirits lift. God, he can’t even remember the last time he went flying. “Wait,” he says. “Just one?”

“You really think I’m going to let you up there alone?”

“I’m hardly going to fall off,” he says mulishly, despite the fact that he isn’t at all certain he _can_ fly a broom at the moment, his magic the way it is.

“That’s the deal. Tandem or nothing.”

He supposes there are far worse things than being tucked up behind Ginny on a broom. “Think that old broom can handle it?” It’s her one from school. Maybe she doesn’t think he’s up for a jaunt on a Perseid at the moment.

“Oh,” Ginny says, giving him a mischievous grin as she mounts the broom, “it’s got a few tricks left in it.”

He steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, trying to get a comfortable seat. After a rocky take off, they find their equilibrium, easing up towards the makeshift goals in the rear paddock.

“Good?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, not feeling any unusual amounts of pain.

“Okay. Hold on.”

He wraps his arms tighter around her.

The broom speeds up, lifting higher. She banks hard left as they near the trees.

He feels his heartbeat tick up, adrenaline beginning to thrum in his chest. It isn’t the same as flying himself, and the loss of control is slightly terrifying. Except this is Ginny, and he’s not sure he’s ever met someone more capable than her.

She does another tight and fast turn of the pasture, Harry letting out a whoop, the sound building and escaping before he even realizes it’s coming.

Ginny glances back at him, hair streaming across her face, grin wide and infectious. “You ready, Potter?” she asks.

“Bring it on,” he says back.

She executes a glorious set of twists and turns, up and over the treetops only to dive down the other side. Pulling up, she takes a few more quick circuits of the pasture.

Harry wants to stay up here forever, but after another series of turns, he can feel his arms weakening. “Ginny,” he says.

She glances back at him. “Enough?”

He nods.

She takes it slower, giving him a chance to savor the last few moments of wind in his face. Gently landing, she clutches his arm to help him find his feet, looking him carefully over. “Did we overdo it?”

“No,” Harry says, covering her hand with his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Just about right. I promise.”

“Good,” she says, clearly relieved not to have pushed it.

He grabs her around the waist, pulling her close. The tip of her nose is bright red from the cold and wind, and he can’t resist pressing a kiss to it.

She scowls at him, and he laughs.

“Thank you,” he says. “I needed that.”

She nods, resting her hands on his chest. “I know this sucks. I know you’re really frustrated. I just need you to remember that it’ll come. Even if it doesn’t feel like it. You’re getting better.”

He takes her face in both of his hands, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers. “Having you here every day,” he says, stumbling over the words but knowing he has to find some way to say it, “is pretty much the only good thing about any of this.”

“Harry,” she says, his name almost a sigh.

He leans down and kisses her.

* * *

“Hello!” Ron calls, the front door to the Burrow slamming shut a moment later. “Anybody home?”

“Up here,” Harry calls back.

Ron thunders up the stairs, peering into Bill’s old room. “Finally won that argument, did you?”

Harry has officially moved into the bedroom on the first floor next to Ginny’s, having mastered the stairs well enough at last. “Yeah.”

It’s a relief, having his own space. It makes him feel like far less of an imposition. It’s also progress. Just like Ginny said. A reminder that things _are_ getting better, no matter how glacial it feels some days.

“How was meeting Hermione’s relatives?” Ron had gone to meet her extended family for the first time, and as cool as Ron has tried to pretend to be about the whole thing, Harry knows better.

Ron shrugs. “Fine.”

Harry can tell from his tone that it was probably anything but. “Did you have to Obliviate anyone?”

“No,” Ron says, flopping across the foot of the bed, tucking his hands behind his head. “It was hard to tell what was weird because of the Australia thing and what’s just…weird, you know? They don’t seem all that close, to be honest.”

Considering how little Hermione has ever mentioned any of her extended family, Harry isn’t exactly surprised.

“I’m pretty sure I heard some cousin or another insinuate that Hermione’s two years ‘studying abroad’ were actually a cover-up of a secret pregnancy. There was a great amount of interest in figuring out if that was my doing.” Ron’s ears are burning red by this point, and Harry can’t be sure if that’s embarrassment or anger.

“And you managed not to hex anyone?”

Ron lets out a laugh. “Only just. Mostly because I was too busy keeping Hermione from it.” He picks at the quilt with his fingers. “I have a feeling they’ve always made her feel a bit strange, even before the magic. Better off without them, if you ask me.”

Harry makes a noncommittal sound.

Ron peers over at him. “What’s with you?”

“Nothing.”

Ron sits up, clearly not buying that, and almost immediately notices the wand sitting on the covers in front of Harry.

“I finally stopped taking the magic suppression potions yesterday,” Harry admits. “I think maybe…it’s starting to come back.” There’d been a slight tingle in his fingers at breakfast. Something so familiar, like the return of a long-missed friend.

“Yeah?” Ron says, own woes apparently already forgotten. “Have you given it a go yet?”

Harry shakes his head.

Ron nods, arms crossing over his chest. “Well, get on with it.”

Harry picks up his wand, the wood smooth and familiar in his fingers, and there, the soft hum of…possibility that has been missing for so long. It makes him a little giddy, just feeling that again.

“I’m not sure what to try first,” he admits.

Ron glances around the room, snatching a feather quill from the small writing desk. “Might as well start at the beginning, yeah?” He places it on the bed between them.

Harry lets out a breath. “If it’s good enough for a mountain troll?”

Ron grins at him. “Yes, exactly.”

“Is it stupid that I’m nervous?”

Ron just lifts his own wand, expression now deeply serious. “Now, remember,” he says, voice a bit high and bossy. “It’s Wing- _gar_ -dium Levi- _o_ -sa.”

Harry shakes his head, Ron’s antics going a long way to settling his nerves. “Sod off,” he says. Lifting his wand, he executes the swish and flick, easily saying the familiar incantation.

The feather barely twitches.

Harry feels his stomach plummet.

“Give it another go,” Ron says encouragingly. “A bit more oomph this time, yeah?”

Harry nods, concentrating on the feather and the feel of his wand in his hand. His second try, the quill barely lifts off the bed before falling back down immediately.

“An improvement,” Ron points out.

Harry just shakes his head, looking down at his wand and feeling something like betrayal.

“Hey. It’ll probably just be like the walking and staying awake for more than fifteen minutes at a time, mate. It’ll just take a little time and practice.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, jaw tight.

He tries half a dozen more times, eventually getting the feather a foot off the bed and holding it for a few seconds. But nothing more. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Progress!” Ron says, but it feels like anything but to Harry.

His expression must speak for him, because Ron gnaws his lip a moment and then says, “Suppose the Elder Wand’s looking a bit more tempting now, huh?”

Harry knows Ron’s joking, just trying to lighten the mood, but instead he finds himself thinking about it. He remembers the feel of it in his hand, the power, the possibility. All the things he thought he’d never need. But if he’d had that wand could he maybe have stopped Rowle? Could he have kept all of this from happening?

He should be better than this. He _needs_ to be.

Getting up off the bed, Harry lifts his wand again. Concentrating very hard and drawing up as much energy as he can, he shouts, “Protego.”

He’s swamped with relief when a shield blooms in front of him, a slight golden shimmer in the air. It feels a lot like he was standing naked somewhere and he’s finally gotten some bloody clothes to cover with.

“Hex me,” Harry says.

“What?” Ron asks.

“Hex me. I’ve got the shield up.”

“Yeah, alright,” Ron says, still not looking particularly keen. He lifts his wand. “Ready?”

Harry nods, concentrating on maintaining the shield.

Ron flicks his wand, casting a simple stinging hex.

Harry stumbles back with a grunt, feeling the hex hit his wand arm. It sailed right through as if the shield was _nothing_.

“Christ, mate,” Ron says, crossing over. “Sorry. I must have put a bit too much into it. It’s not every day I get clear permission to hex you.”

But Harry knows that’s not it. The hex hadn’t been that strong at all. His shield was just that weak. _He’s_ just that weak. It doesn’t feel right, like he’s underwater, like he’s moving through something thick and viscous.

“Oh, hey,” Ron says, looking over at the door.

Harry turns to see Ginny standing in the doorway, clearly having returned from Luna’s. The urge to hide his wand is immediate and visceral. He wants to know how long she’s been standing there.

“Hey,” she says, eyes dropping briefly to his wand before she returns her attention to her brother. “Been here long?”

“Not really,” Ron says. “When exactly are the wanker and his family supposed to arrive?”

Ginny’s gaze turns cool. “I know you probably used up all your nice manners on Hermione’s horrid relatives, but you’d better find another well between now and tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron says dismissively. “Treat him nice or deal with your wrath. I know the drill. But that doesn’t mean I have to be nice to his parents if they put on airs.”

“You will if you want to avoid Mum’s wrath.”

Ron groans. “Still don’t know why I have to be here for this.”

“Moral support for poor house-bound Harry.”

They both turn to look at him.

“Well then,” Ron says. “I suppose I can bear it.”

“I could always fake a headache,” Harry says, not any more keen on the upcoming dinner than Ron.

Ron snorts. “Within an hour, Mum would have a mediwitch out here and you know it.”

“Good point,” Harry says, putting his wand back down and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Alright, mate?”

“Just tired,” Harry says. “I think I’ll take a quick kip before dinner.”

“Sounds good,” Ron says. “But don’t think I don’t know this is a ploy. I will come up and drag you down if I have to.”

Harry lets out a huff, waving them away. “Yeah, yeah.”

Ginny leaves first, but not without giving him a long look that Harry does his best to avoid.

Ron claps a hand on his shoulder before he goes. “It’ll get better. Even if just because you’re the most stubborn person I know.”

“Yeah,” Harry says vaguely.

Ron closes the door behind him, and Harry swings his feet up on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He wishes his brain completely blank, a painful throb starting to build. Rolling onto his side, he closes his eyes.

* * *

“I’ve got it!” Ginny calls out, heading for the front door. It’s not like anyone else is eager to get there first.

Standing on the front stoop is the Burke family.

When Arthur invited his apprentice and his family to dinner as a polite gesture, she has a feeling no one expected the Burkes to actually accept. But here they are, all four of them. Even Mags.

Tobias already looks peeved. That doesn’t give Ginny high hopes for the evening.

“Hi,” Ginny belatedly says. “Uh, come on in!”

Tobias slides her a look, and she tries not to wince at how fake-cheery she sounds.

“Can I take your cloaks?” she asks, happy to have a task to focus on.

“Is that Tobias?” Mum’s voice calls out from the kitchen.

“The one and only, Mrs. W,” Tobias says as she appears out in the hall.

“Lovely to see you, dear,” she says, patting him on the cheeks before bundling him into a hug.

Ginny slides a look at the Burkes, but their faces are impassive, only Mags looking around in undisguised curiosity.

“You must be Tobias’s parents,” Molly says, wiping her hands on her apron before reaching out to shake their hands. She’s clearly gone to no small amount of trouble with her appearance, putting on her nicest robes, but her hair is already flying away from the steam of the stove and a patch of flour mars her sleeve.

Ginny realizes her mum is far more nervous than she’s letting on and feels the sudden certainty that if Mr. and Mrs. Burke act badly, she will not be held accountable for her actions.

Arthur appears then too, everyone shaking hands, sharing shallow pleasantries that do nothing to dispel the awkwardness, Ginny’s eye sharp for any slights.

“Smells delicious,” Tobias says into the following silence.

Molly smiles widely at him, her cheeks tingeing pink. “Oh, go on with you.”

Tobias responds with a charming smile and a wink, and that’s it, he is officially the _worst_. Ginny kind of wants to hug him now, too.

“Why don’t you take them to the sitting room?” Molly tells Ginny. “Dinner will be ready shortly.”

Ron and Hermione are already there, another round of introductions following. Mr. and Mrs. Burke sit primly on the edges of the worn chairs like they might somehow stain their clothes.

“Harry’s still asleep, I think,” Ron says in a low voice to Ginny as she sits down next to him.

Probably for the best. Ron must think so too, not having followed through on his threat to drag Harry down.

“So you’re really a Muggleborn?” Mags asks Hermione.

Ginny can see Ron tense, touching his arm to stop him from doing anything particularly stupid.

“Yes,” Hermione says, clearly uncertain, but choosing to be polite for now.

Mags looks delighted. “Oh, I have _ever_ so many questions.”

Tobias groans. “Here we go. Now she’s never going to shut up.”

“Tobias,” Mrs. Burke chastises.

Mags just pokes her tongue out at Tobias and then turns back to Hermione. “I’m sorry. Was that rude of me to ask? I’ve just met so few Muggles or Muggleborns and it’s nearly impossible to get reliable information. Wizarding books are practically useless.”

“What books are you reading?” Hermione asks with a frown, any offense clearly forgotten in the face of vetting reference materials.

The two of them settle into an involved conversation, the rest of them just sitting and watching, Tobias’s parents continuing to look around the room as if cataloging every failing.

Fortunately it isn’t long until Molly is calling them into the kitchen.

“Thank Merlin,” she hears Tobias mutter.

Mr. Burke isn’t exactly great at keeping his disdain off his face as they all gather around the table squeezed into the kitchen. “Are you sure we’ll all fit?”

“Oh, we’re used an even larger crowd most days, now aren’t we?” Arthur says easily, squeezing Molly’s arm as he passes.

The adults settle at one end of the table, Molly at the head, Arthur and Mrs. Burke settling next to her. Mags doesn’t hesitate to take the seat next to Hermione, the rest of them filling in.

“Well, help yourselves,” Molly says, gesturing at the food covering almost every surface of the table. She certainly hadn’t scrimped, though Ginny is relieved to see she didn’t try anything odd, just sticking to her standard delicious fare.

Harry comes down the stairs just as they all finish serving themselves. Everyone seems to turn and look all at once, the Burkes probably curious to catch their first glimpse of Harry, the way the papers have been sensationalizing him the last couple weeks.

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs to Molly as he moves to take the last open seat between Ron and Mr. Burke.

“It’s fine, dear,” she says. “Now eat up.”

Harry nods, giving her a fleeting smile. He looks a bit surly. Ginny is reasonably certain that isn’t just the company. Ron told her about Harry’s first attempts to use magic. She knows how much he’s been waiting for that.

“Potter,” Tobias says with a nod as he settles across from him.

“Burke,” Harry says back.

Tobias leans an elbow on the table. “I see rumors of your demise were exaggerated.”

Harry shrugs. “They usually are.”

“Well, you don’t look too terrible. Must be all the excellent nursing care you’ve been getting.”

Harry’s smile is tight. “Must be.”

Mags is apparently uninterested in Harry, turning to Hermione to ask about some sort of Muggle tests she’s preparing for.

“Your whats?” Ron asks.

“Her GCSEs,” Hermione explains. “It’s the Muggle equivalent of the OWLs. I took mine the summer before fifth year.”

“Did you take your A Levels?” Mags says, clearly excited to have someone to talk to about all this, and Ginny is beginning to suspect Tobias asked Arthur to invite Hermione and Ron specifically for this.

Ginny glances over at Tobias, but he just looks bored, having given up any attempts at maintaining the awkward conversation with Harry. Harry is just quietly shoveling food into his mouth, seemingly only half paying attention to Hermione and Mags’s conversation.

“No, I never took them,” Hermione says, giving her a tight smile. “There wasn’t time…the way things ended up. I suppose I thought I might still go to university at some point. But it hasn’t worked out.”

Meaning she was too busy being in hiding from the anti-Muggleborn government and trying to help Harry hunt down the horcruxes. Ginny can’t help but wonder if the pre-Christmas visit with her Muggle relatives was a bit too rife with people wanting to know why the annoyingly smart Hermione somehow isn’t going to university. It would be hard to keep something that big a secret.

Ginny can sympathize.

Ron puts an arm around Hermione’s shoulders, squeezing her gently. “Only because you’re already on your way to running the entire bloody Ministry.”

Her cheeks flush. “Now that is a gross exaggeration.”

Mags is apparently unimpressed by this annoying display of affection. “Tell me what it was like to sit them. Anything you wish you’d done differently?”

Mags and Hermione set off on an in-depth conversation about things that make Ron’s eyes glaze over.

At the other end of the table, the adults seem to be talking about Diagon Alley, Molly and Arthur both looking uncomfortable with the topic—probably because Harry is right there, clearly able to hear, but Mr. Burke plows on.

“They’ve done a remarkable job with the clean up. You’d be hard-pressed to know it was in a shambles just a few weeks ago. People are still jittery though.”

George has mentioned sales are down, not as many people willing to risk the streets. But owl orders are booming.

“I suppose people had just finally begun feeling safe again after the war,” Mrs. Burke says. “It’s a bit of a shock.”

Arthur clears his throat. “And your business?” he asks Mr. Burke. “Is it going well?”

Ginny thinks her dad probably doesn’t even remember Mr. Burke’s line of work, but is grateful to him for trying all the same. She glances at Harry, and Ron is already leaning over to say something to him, Harry snorting in response.

Tobias nudges her. “Okay, what’s the contingency plan?”

“What?” she asks, turning to look at him.

“You must have one, or three, for when this inevitably goes horribly, horribly wrong.”

Ginny bites back a smile. “You could fake choking.”

“Nah. I’ve used that one way too many times. They’d never buy it.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time we gave Percy a parsnip mash shower?”

Tobias lets out a laugh. “Merlin, no. But now you have to. In the name of keeping me from shouting at my parents or getting fired by your father.”

Things go rather well for a while, and the meal is nearly, mercifully over when there’s a lull in the conversation just in time for Mr. Burke’s voice to rise above the general din, clearly somehow back on his favored topic.

“Considering the extent of the damage, it’s a miracle there was only one fatality,” he says.

Ginny feels a beat of foreboding, glancing over at Harry just in time to see his head lift with a jerk.

“Yes, well—” Arthur says, clearly keen to push the conversation along.

“They’re talking about some sort of memorial on the site,” Mr. Burke continues, sounding dismissive as if getting caught in a terrorist attack and dying is no great feat to be immortalized.

“For Rowle?” Harry says incredulously, his face flushed with what she thinks must be anger at the very idea.

“No, no,” Mr. Burke says like Harry’s brain must be addled. “His death was obviously no great loss. I meant to the other wizard.” He turns to his wife, clearly oblivious to the rapidly shifting mood in the room. “What was his name?”

“Other wizard?” Harry says, a clear edge to his voice. The color has rapidly drained back away from his face, his eyes seeking Ginny’s as if for some sort of confirmation, and she knows her grim countenance is all he needs.

Bugger.

Molly quickly and loudly changes the subject to how proud Mr. and Mrs. Burke must be to have such a smart and kind and hard-working son as Tobias, but the damage has been done.

Harry is silent as they finish off dessert, not lifting his fork to his mouth once, and Ginny can practically feel the way pressure is building and building in him the longer he sits there. Ron and Hermione clearly notice as well, sharing less and less subtle looks. Luckily, either Mr. and Mrs. Burke don’t notice or simply pay it no attention. After all, they seem the kind of people to put polite manners above everything else.

Not that they aren’t probably judging everything in their minds.

When the meal is done and everyone gets up to retire to the sitting room, Harry disappears up the stairs without a word. In a move Ginny thinks is completely misguided, Ron and Hermione immediately follow after him.

Ginny joins everyone into the sitting room, settling next to Tobias.

He leans into her. “Did Potter really not know?”

“I guess not,” Ginny says, not completely surprised considering the way Harry’s avoided the _Prophet_.

Tobias gives her a look of disbelief.

She sighs. “He isn’t exactly the kind of person to talk about things like that.” And none of them wanted to bring it up while he was struggling to recover. Or ever, to be honest. Harry seems to prefer ignorance whenever possible.

They are in the sitting room less than five minutes when the first muffled sounds of someone shouting filter down from above.

Tobias mumbles, “Sounds like he finally found something to say about it.”

Ginny grimaces.

There is another shout, this one far less muffled. Molly looks torn between concern and embarrassment as she tries to smile at Mr. and Mrs. Burke.

Ginny calmly pushes to her feet, smiling at their guests. “Excuse me a moment.”

She squeezes her mum’s shoulder on her way out. “I’ve got it,” she murmurs.

The ranting only gets louder as she moves up the stairs, the door to Bill’s room partially ajar. Ginny eases it open, peering inside.

Harry stands on one side of the room, his face flushed with anger. Hermione is a short distance away, Ron’s hand on her arm. She already looks near tears. Harry has clearly let himself be pushed past any restraint.

“You didn’t think I deserved to know?” he’s bellowing.

Ginny steps inside, closing the door behind her with a solid thump. They all turn to look at her.

“Just a reminder that we still have guests downstairs,” she says, voice mild.

Hermione looks pained, but pleased for the distraction. “Maybe we could talk about this later.” Once he’s had a chance to calm down, is the unspoken part.

But Harry is staring at Ginny now, his chest still heaving with what she imagines is weeks’ worth of suppressed emotion—all the pain and frustration and helplessness rushing out all at once.

“You need to stay the bloody hell out of this,” he growls, and part of that, she knows, is Harry not being able to handle dealing with her on top of everything else right now. Even if he is being a complete arse about it.

“Hey,” Ron says. “Don’t you have a go at her too.”

But this only seems to do the impossible and somehow incense Harry further. “I will talk to her any way I damn well please!” he nearly roars.

Ron’s mouth opens in outrage, and Ginny knows this is only going to deteriorate into something they’ll both have a hard time forgiving each other for if she can’t get it under control.

“That’s enough,” she says, stepping between them.

“Is it?” Harry practically snarls.

Ginny gets why people find Harry intimidating. He has an aura about him that is hard to explain, very little of it having to do with his famous name; but perhaps not completely unrelated to his shared past with Voldemort, as much as it would probably kill him to hear it. She isn’t completely immune to it herself. But she also understands that his infamous roaring temper is about far more than anger.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “It is.”

He takes a step towards her. “None of you had any right to keep this from me,” he says, clearly more than happy to transfer his festering anger to her.

She lifts her chin, matching his aggression with her own, knowing that’s the only thing he’ll hear right now. “Bollocks. You didn’t _want_ to know.”

“ _What?_ ” he demands, something fairly dangerous in his tone now.

“Ginny,” Ron warns, his hand on her arm.

She ignores him, shaking him off. “If you really wanted to know, you had a thousand chances. You could have asked. You could have picked up the paper just once and looked. You could have actually read one of the _dozens_ of reports Kingsley sent on to you from the Auror department.”

Harry’s hands curl into fists.

“You didn’t do any of those things, Harry,” she says, pressing ruthlessly home. “Because you didn’t want to know.”

He seems on the verge of stepping into her, only to abruptly turn away, aiming a kick at the old worn dresser. It lets out a mournful creak.

Ginny winces, her voice softening slightly. “I know you’re upset. None of us blame you for that. It’s a horrible thing. But don’t take it out on Ron and Hermione. They’re your best mates, and if you can accuse them of anything, it’s of trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting!” he says, spinning back around to look at her. His indignation is clearly slipping, even as he fights to hold on to it, and this, she thinks, is probably when he is most dangerous.

“Yeah,” she says, “because you’d never do something like that. Try to protect people you care about.”

He seems to hover on the edge of bellowing again, but Ginny just holds his gaze, refusing to back down.

“Harry,” she says, voice quiet.

He takes a few truncated steps in each direction as if he can’t decide where to go before collapsing back to sit on the edge of the bed, digging his fingers up under his glasses.

Behind her, she can hear Ron let out a breath.

“It’s my fault,” Harry says, voice quiet and anguished where it had been belligerent before.

Ginny feels her heart break for him. She opens her mouth, but Ron gets there first, pushing past her. “It bloody well isn’t.”

Harry shakes his head. “If I hadn’t been in Diagon Alley that day…”

Hermione crosses over too, sitting on the bed next to him. “If you hadn’t been there, all those people in the café would have been defenseless.”

Harry looks at her. “If I hadn’t been there, no one in that café would have needed protection in the first place. And Luna…”

“Luna’s fine,” Hermione stubbornly says.

“No thanks to being friends with me.”

Hermione and Ron share a look over his head.

Ron sits on the other side of Harry, his hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, well, you can yell at us all you like. That isn’t going to stop us being friends with you,” he says. “Even if you are a twat.”

“Ron,” Hermione chastises, but Harry just snorts, shaking his head.

And just like that, the three of them seem to pull back together, a perfect little unit. Ginny takes a few steps back, her heart still pounding away in her chest, the draining adrenaline making her legs feel weak.

“There’s only one person to blame in this situation, Harry,” Hermione says, “and his name was Thorfinn Rowle. And he can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

Ginny quietly slips out the door. Closing it behind her, she leans back against its solid bulk, listening to the soft rumble of voices on the other side as she tries to pull everything back under control. Once she trusts herself, she heads back down the stairs.

Walking into the sitting room, she smiles. “The ghoul escaped the attic again.”

“A ghoul?” Mags asks. “Cool. All we have is a manky old pixie who’s too lazy to even curse.”

Ginny laughs. “Yes, it’s particularly fun when he gets into the water pipes while you’re in the shower.”

She sits down next to Tobias, his knee bumping hers in question. She gives him a small nod. Everything’s okay.

Her fingers dig into her thigh.

Fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Burke don’t remain long after that, taking Mags home with them.

Tobias lingers, sitting out on the porch with Ginny, a merry little fire conjured on the ground in front of them, pushing back the frigid night air.

“So,” Ginny says. “How do you think it went?”

“You mean besides Potter’s little tantrum?”

Ginny gives him a quelling look.

Tobias, amazingly, takes the hint. “It actually went surprisingly well. I don’t think I heard my dad say ‘blood traitor’ even once.”

Ginny nudges him in the ribs. “Tobias.”

He sighs. “I still can’t believe they even came. That they let Mags come too.”

“They want to know about your life.”

“Or they just wanted the inside scoop on Potter,” he says cynically.

Ginny doesn’t find herself completely able to refute that possibility.

Tobias seems to deflate. “I suppose it’s possible they’ve finally accepted that gainful employment is gainful employment, even if they don’t understand it. I think before tonight they still thought Muggle Studies was just me trying to hack them off.”

“Wasn’t it?”

Tobias gives her a grin. “That was only part of it. A very satisfying part of it, nonetheless.”

She laughs, burrowing further down in her coat. “So why then?”

He shrugs. “I think I realized it was going to be Mags’ world, you know? If she ever wanted to be anything more than damaged, than a secret, she would have to find that in the Muggle world. I guess I wanted to know what that world was like.” He shakes himself a bit, like he’s caught himself being just a little too maudlin. “Once I started studying… I never expected to enjoy it so much.”

“Knew you were a weirdo from the first.”

He ignores the slight. “And why did you take Muggle Studies? And don’t try to blame Smita. I know you dragged her along.”

“It was all of it,” Ginny admits, thinking back to her tumultuous third year. “But mostly, the way my parents looked at my tattoo.”

“Trying to prove something?”

She laughs. “Always.”

Tobias shoves his hands deep into his pockets, staring contemplatively into the flames. “It’s the thing people don’t seem to realize. We like to think of the Muggles existing in our world, like we _allow_ it. But I think it’s the opposite. We’re the ones existing in their world. We keep pulling back and hiding and shrinking, and if we keep it up one day we really will disappear.”

“Just like the Death Eaters always feared.”

“Yeah,” Tobias says. “Only the Dark Lord thought the answer was to in-breed. To concentrate the magic and wipe out the Muggles. To dominate them.” He looks at her. “And we all saw how that worked out.”

So much of that supposedly precious wizard blood lost, an entire generation almost decimated. It’s been widely reported that the first year class at Hogwarts this fall was the smallest it’s been in fifty years.

“So what do you think the answer is then?” she asks.

“Pretty much the opposite. I think we should stop segregating ourselves. We need to adapt, or expire. You can already see it, the way our generation is more comfortable with Muggle culture than our parents’, more open to it. The Death Eaters saw it as a corruption, a weakening of wizard culture. But they were just scared of losing some imaginary position that never really existed in the first place. We aren’t unique. We aren’t special. We’re all just people.”

Ginny smiles at him fondly, feeling a swell of pride in her chest.

“What are you grinning at?” Tobias asks, voice gruff.

“Dad’s lucky to have you,” she says.

He scowls.

“After all, I knew there had to be a reason he was being so much more politically savvy lately,” she says. The power and significance of the Muggle Relations department has grown exponentially since the war, and with it, her father’s position. It’s weird, really.

Tobias snorts. “Your dad’s an impressive sort. He just likes to hide it behind that easygoing exterior. I do my best to help implement his ideas. Perhaps a bit more _strategically_ from time to time.”

Ginny laughs. “I bet.”

They stare at the fire.

He bumps her shoulder with his. “I’m going to miss you when you wing off to become a big famous Quidditch star and forget all about us little people.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” she says, her chest feeling tight. “I mean, I’m definitely going to become a big famous star. But I’ll always remember the little people.”

Tobias rolls his eyes. “Git.”

She looks at him, light-heartedness seeming to fade. “I’m a bit scared, to be honest. I’ve never been on my own. Not like this.” Pretty much leaving behind everything she’s ever known. Everyone.

“Admit it, you’re mostly just worried about starving.”

She laughs, the sound a little thick in her throat. “That’s pretty much true.”

He wraps his arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze. “You’re Ginny Weasley,” he says against the top of her head. “You can do anything.”

She’s trying really hard to believe that.

“Ginny.”

They look up to see Harry push out onto the porch.

He comes to an abrupt stop when he sees Tobias there. “Burke. I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“Potter,” Tobias says, relaxing his arm and leaning back from Ginny. “Good to see my family hasn’t run you completely out of the county.”

Ginny bites back a sigh, trying to give Tobias a warning look, but he is deliberately not looking at her.

“Sorry about that,” Harry says, face tight. She can tell he’s still running pretty hot, but probably won’t blow up in front of Tobias. Probably.

Tobias waves it away. “I’m sure an autographed photo would more than make Mags forgive you.”

He’s clearly purposely needling Harry, and Ginny has no intention of letting him get away with it. “Mags isn’t the star-struck type,” she reminds him. “We all know you’d probably keep it for yourself, pressed between the pages of your diary.”

“Well,” Tobias says. “Potter _is_ rather dreamy.”

“And still standing right here,” Harry says, clearly annoyed, but that isn’t much of a stretch today.

Ginny grimaces. “Sorry. Did you need something?” she asks, like she doesn’t know perfectly well that he wants to talk about what happened earlier. She should probably find a way to excuse herself, give Harry the opportunity he’s looking for, but she’s feeling too exhausted, strangely raw.

His eyes dart to Tobias. “No. It can wait.”

“If you’re sure,” she says.

“Yeah,” he says, and she can tell he isn’t particularly happy. “Well, goodnight.”

“’Night,” she says.

Tobias just gives him a cheery wave.

The door closes behind Harry, and Tobias looks at her. “Coward,” he accuses.

Ginny sighs. “Pretty much.”

He regards her a long moment, and she knows with absolute certainty that he’s thinking of that moment at the hospital. “If you’re beginning to question things…”

“I’m not,” she says, even as something painful blooms in her chest. She ruthlessly shoves the emotion back down.

Tobias doesn’t budge. “I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t. I’m just saying that it would be understandable, in the situation.”

_Would it really?_ she wonders. Because that’s not what it feels like. It feels awful.

“He almost died, Tobias.”

He nods. “Yeah, he did. And he’s not the only one having to find a way to deal with that.”

She closes her eyes, fighting back against the painful swell of emotions she can’t afford to let herself feel, to really feel. “Tell me what’s been going on with you,” she says when she can trust her voice to be steady.

Tobias is quiet, like he might stubbornly refuse to comply, to stop playing this little game they’ve been dancing around for so long. But after a while he starts to speak, spinning tales and jokes, two lies for every truth.

He doesn’t stay much longer, eventually giving her a firm hug before mussing her hair and disappearing up the path. She’s still on the porch, the fire burned down, when Ron and Hermione walk out to Apparate home.

It’s clear that they’re talking about Harry now that they’re free of the house.

“I’ve never seen anyone handle Harry the way Ginny did,” Ron is saying. “It was amazing.”

Ginny feels her shoulders tense, hating with every fiber of her being the way Ron is talking about Harry like he’s some wild animal that needs to be tamed.

“She was just logical,” Hermione says.

Ron snorts. “Like logic has ever worked on Harry when he gets like that. No, it was almost like she yelled him into submission, but more like she just out-willed him.”

Hermione doesn’t respond.

“I guess Ginny’s always been bloody terrifying,” Ron says. “Apparently even Harry thinks so.”

They pass out of earshot.

When she starts to shiver with cold, she finally abandons her hiding spot and heads back inside.

* * *

“Nox,” Harry mutters, the light blinking out as if it weren’t already fading rapidly, his spell weakened more and more. He lays his wand across the reports from Kingsley, the darkness hiding the words, but doing nothing to soften the remembered details.

He should go to bed, he knows, but also that there isn’t any point. He doubts he’ll sleep tonight. Instead he looks out the window, staring blindly into the shadow-shrouded garden. He’s not sure how long he’s been at it when there’s a soft knock.

He turns in time to see his door slowly push open, Ginny’s face appearing around the edge. She’s looking at the bed, easing further into the room upon finding it empty.

“Here,” Harry says.

She turns, the white of her oversized t-shirt is like a ghost in the dark as she closes the door behind her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says, one hand rubbing at her arm almost nervously.

His fault too, no doubt. “Me either,” he says.

She takes a few steps closer, eyes sweeping the table, taking in the reports spread across it. _You didn’t want to know,_ she’d accused him.

And she’d been right. But he’s read them now, every tiny damning detail.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She shakes her head. “It’s fine.”

Only it’s not. It’s so bloody far from fine. “Ron was right. I had no right to talk to you like that.”

“No,” she says. “You didn’t. But I’m okay. I can handle it.”

He thinks about it, the way she charged in here, the way she didn’t cringe away from him the way everyone else seems to. Still isn’t even now.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he says. “I just…” He closes his eyes, rubbing at them impatiently.

His mind is loud with everything he read. The wizard’s name, age, exactly how he died. Even what he looked like. A completely innocent person in the wrong place at the wrong time. And god, he really didn’t want to know. It’s so much worse than the needling suspicion. He leans forward, bracing his arms on his knees and staring down at the floor, choked with the guilt and rage and sheer fucking helplessness.

Ginny’s hand is gentle on the top of his head. “It’s not your fault, Harry.”

He shakes his head in denial even as he reaches blindly for her, his fingers brushing her hip. She moves closer, fingers slipping into his hair.

“It’s not your fault.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, body still tense despite the way her hands move soothingly across his neck and shoulders. His thoughts are so deafening that it no longer seems to matter that he doesn’t deserve it, this comfort she’s offering. Fingers tightening on her waist, he drags her closer like she can somehow muffle it all, make it bloody stop.

She wraps her arms around him, pulling his head and shoulders firmly into her chest, her head leaning down to rest against the top of his. “It’s not your fault,” she says, like she will stand here and say it over and over again if she has to.

Something is building and building in his chest—something almost like that raging pressure to yell and shout and throw things—but different, too. Now his fingers twist and dig into her shirt, seeking the warmth of her skin and he doesn’t know how to ask for it, what he needs.

“Harry,” she says.

Reluctantly, he lifts his head to look at her. He can barely make out the contours of her face in the dim light, knows she probably can’t see him any better, but whatever’s there makes her reach for his face, fingers lingering on his jaw. And then she’s lifting his chin and kissing him. No gentle brush of her lips, but deep and searching and exactly what he needs.

She stands over him, her hair hanging around them like a curtain, making it feel like everything else in the world has fallen away but her. It’s like he’s been numb and listless ever since the attack, his body dulled by potions and endlessly prodded by pain, and now everything is roaring back to him at once, something horribly close to a whimper escaping him as she kisses and kisses him, heat building between them like an electrical charge. His hands twist in the fabric of her shirt, tugging her closer, not sure he could handle it if she stepped back away from him, if she tried to say they have to stop, to be _careful_.

In sharp contrast to every other touch between them since the attack--always brief and delicate, and never, ever enough--tonight her hands just as insistent as his own. She’s closer than she’s been in weeks and weeks, and he’s dizzy with it. Pushing up the hem of her shirt, he slides his hands up the warm skin of her sides, settling over her breasts. She sighs against his mouth, her knee lifting up on the edge of the chair as she lifts herself half up onto his lap.

He shoves the shirt even higher, and she leans back just long enough to pull it up over her head and drop it to the floor. He immediately draws her close again, only instead of kissing her, he turns his face to the smooth plane of her sternum, dragging his mouth lower. Her hands are in his hair again as she shifts against him, making soft, urgent sounds, only more so when he slides his hand up her thigh.

And this, at last, finally feels real, like she’s not just out of reach.

She pushes against his chest, getting to her feet, and for a moment he’s terrified she’s going to say they’ve gone too far, but she just drags down her knickers, kicking them free before charming the door shut and casting a contraceptive charm on herself.

It’s too long without contact, Harry shoving himself up and out of the chair so quickly that he startles her, but he needs to kiss her now, to feel her body against his. He drags her up against his chest and now it’s his turn to lean down and kiss her, her entire body bare to his touch.

In the haze of sensations, it takes a moment for him to realize she’s caught the hem of his shirt and is pulling it up. He stops her, his hands covering her. “I don’t…” he tries to say, strangely resistant to letting her see his torso, for once wanting to be a _person_ and not an injury, not a _scar_.

“It’s okay,” she says, instead reaching for the waist of his trousers. “All right?”

He nods.

She pulls them down, her fingers grazing the back of his legs as she kneels down to help him step out of them.

Back on her feet, she walks him towards the bed. “Tell me if anything hurts,” she says.

He nods, even knowing he probably won’t. He needs this too badly.

Settling back on the bed, Ginny follows him up, stretching out next to him. She’s carefully perched to one side, clearly wary of his injury, but Harry pulls her down until he can feel the solid warmth of her body down the length of his. This is what he wants. He wants all of her, the way she makes him feel—not fleeting touches or clinical examinations, but messy and insistent and not bloody careful at all.

He slides his hand up her thigh, pulling her tight against him, nearly moaning at the contact. Ginny’s mouth is back on his, slick and sliding and unrelenting, her body shifting impatiently, two months of physical separation seeming to snap all at once. Fuck, she feels amazing, almost too amazing, really.

“Ginny,” he somehow manages to say.

She nods, apparently knowing exactly what it is that he wants, or maybe just wants it too, because her hand wraps firmly around him, and then she’s shifting, sitting up to lower herself down onto him. She moves slowly, tentatively—a gentle surge and retreat.

Harry closes his eyes, hands pressing into her thighs as he focuses down on the fucking incredible feel of her. He can hear a sigh escape her once she settles, and he feels completely surrounded by her.

It’s been so damn long.

After long moments of just lingering there in that feeling of connection, she slowly rolls her hips, making a tentative circle that has his breath catching in his throat.

“Okay?” she asks, slightly breathless like she’s still worrying about him being in pain, or even worse, not being completely certain of herself and what she’s doing. A bare handful of times they’ve tried this, and never like this.

He opens his eyes, looking up at her with her hair falling into her face, bottom lip caught between her teeth. He reaches for her, pushing himself up on his elbow as he pulls her closer. “So good,” he says fervently, and then kisses her firmly, intent on making her forget everything but feeling good as well.

Soon enough, she starts a smooth, rolling rhythm. He drops back onto the pillows, hands on her hips as she gains confidence, her movements more and more sure and completely overwhelming. She falls forward, her hands bracing on his shoulders as she lifts up only to rock down again and again. He bites back a curse, rolling up to meet her as best he can.

When it starts to feel like too much, he tries to focus on watching the pleasure on her face, the way she tightens around him as she gasps, the slightly desperate sounds she’s making like no matter what she does it just isn’t quite enough. He slides his fingers up her thigh to press between their bodies, and she lets out a guttural sound that he takes to mean this is exactly what she wants from him.

“God, yes,” she says, grinding against him, tempo building.

Just when he thinks he’s going to lose it completely, like there is no way he’s going to hang on any longer, she grabs his wrist, holding his hand firmly as she moves against him a few last erratic times, and then she’s collapsing towards him, her head falling against his shoulder as her back heaves with her breathing. Her hips are still gently rolling, and as great as it feels, it’s not enough. Not nearly.

Without giving it any thought, he wraps an arm firmly around her waist and flips her to her back. He feels a tight wrench of pain across his side, but doesn’t care, just needs to be closer to her, as close as he can manage, letting the pleasure chase the pain away.

She pulls him close, her knees lifting to brace his sides almost protectively, her hands tight in his hair as he presses into her. She pants his name in his ear, each moan and gasp like a litany.

_It’s not your fault, it’s not your fault, it’s not your fault._

He can feel sweat trailing down his back, his arms and legs trembling with exhaustion, but it doesn’t matter because he can’t hold it back any longer, muffling a hoarse cry into her neck. His entire body shudders, his arms nearly giving out.

He drops himself to the side to avoid crushing her, and she rolls with him, leg wrapping over his hip as she holds him close. He hugs her tight, the giant tangle of words and feelings and worries nearly choking him as he tries to catch his breath, but only knowing one certain thing—that being here with her like this is what he needs more than anything in this world.

_It’s not your fault._


	10. Chapter 10

Harry stands in the garden behind the Burrow, watching the sun rise up behind the trees, casting them as dark silhouettes against the lightening sky. He takes a slow, deep breath, the sharp sting of cold air filling his lungs. It’s so peacefully quiet.

It won’t be for long though, he knows, the rest of the household bound to wake very soon.

For now, he feels completely content, everything calm and soft and painless.

Lifting his cup to his mouth, he takes a sip of the hot coffee inside. The nutty smell of it fills his nose and throat, but, no, it’s something more bitter than what he expects once it hits his tongue. Something acrid and cloying. Almost like…smoke.

He turns, and behind him, the Burrow is on fire.

The rush of noise is almost overwhelming, screams and rumbles and the brittle sound of things shearing apart assaulting his ears. The mug drops from his hands, shattering on the ground as Harry scrambles towards the house, stumbling over rubble and broken armor.

Ron is on his knees, hands clawing at debris.

“Ron!” Harry says, lurching to a stop next to him.

“How could you?” Ron accuses, face streaked with dirt and blood.

“What—what happened?” Harry asks.

“She was in there, you bloody fool!”

Harry looks up at the castle, Hogwarts reduced to nothing but listing rubble oozing fluid he is too scared to identify. Rushing up to the main door, he tries to push it open, but it’s blocked by an unseen force. He pushes and pushes and pushes, beating his fists against it. With a shout, he throws his shoulder against it and it opens with a shudder, Harry tumbling through.

He’s inside Ginny’s room. Dim and quiet and empty, everything perfectly put in its place.

“Harry.”

He turns and she’s there, sitting at the window seat, legs tucked up under her and face turned away from him. Beyond the window stretches a dark landscape blanketed in snow.

He takes a step towards her, feeling everything softening with knee-weakening relief. “I thought… God. I didn’t know where you were.”

“I’m here,” she says, hand pressing flat against a glass pane. “I’m always here.”

A cloud passes, the room filling with moonlight, throwing everything in high contrast. Except Ginny. The light seems to pass through her.

He feels panic fill his chest. “What’s wrong?”

One of her shoulders lifts listlessly.

He glances around the room. “You should lie down. Get some rest.”

“Harry,” she says, posture so weary. But, no, now that he’s looking at her, not tired. More like faded, everything bright and sharp and good about her eroded away.

He reaches for her, and his hand passes though, hitting the glass. “What--”

She turns to look at him, and her face is a brutalized mess.

“No,” he says as a trickle of silvery blood spills down over her cheek.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says.

“It is,” he says. “It is my fault.”

She looks down at his hand. He doesn’t want to, everything in his body fighting against it, but his hand opens, and floating right above his palm is a hard, dark stone. The Resurrection Stone.

“No,” he says. 

“You have to let me go,” she says, voice less than a whisper, like she’s already gone. 

Gone, gone, gone.

“ _No_.”

“Please,” she begs. 

He shakes his head. “I can’t…”

The entire room pitches to one side, an explosion rocking the house, the sounds of screams filtering back in. He staggers, letting out a hoarse shout as the stone tumbles from his fingers. He lurches after it but it hits the ground, disappearing into the shadows.

He looks up and Ginny is gone, leaving him alone in a frozen forest stretching as far as he can see.

Completely alone.

Harry sits up with a jerk, hissing when his side blooms with deep, searing pain. He presses a hand against it, breathing deep through the pain, and it takes him a moment to place himself, to clear away the panic enough to recognize the walls of Bill’s old room.

Lying in the sheets next to him is Ginny, one bare arm tucked up under her pillow. In the dark of the room, she’s still and colorless and Harry feels his throat close like something is mercilessly squeezing it.

He reaches out to touch her, his shaking fingers stopping just short. Only then she lets out a soft sound like a sigh, face pressing into her pillow.

Harry closes his eyes, head still loud and dizzy. Sliding out of bed, he pulls the quilt up over her shoulder and she makes an indistinct noise, rolling into the warm spot left by his body.

He paces towards the window, scooping up his trousers with wince and pulling them on. The reports are all still there on the table, his wand lying across them. Indelible. Inescapable. Turning away, he rests his forearm against the window frame, looking out to see the sky just beginning to lighten in the distance.

He waits for his breathing to calm, for his heart to stop pounding away in his chest as the sweat cools on his brow.

Returning to the bed, he leans over Ginny, hesitating only slightly before making contact. He lets out a breath at the solid feel of her body, the warmth of her smooth, untouched skin. Sliding his hands under her, he picks her up, ignoring the pain screaming in his side.

“Harry?” she murmurs.

“Shh,” he says, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Everything’s okay.”

With a lazy nod, she settles back against him, totally trusting of him and his ability to keep her safe.

He carries her back to her room, tucking her carefully into bed.

He sits by her window, eyes on the empty front walk, lingering until he hears the first stirring sounds of Molly and Arthur above.

Gently closing the door behind him, he returns to his room.

* * *

By the time Harry gets downstairs that morning, Ginny has already left with Arthur to take the International Floo. They’re spending two days in Ireland to let a flat for Ginny. It’s another thing he’s been studiously not thinking about, that his time here with Ginny is quickly dwindling.

It’s going to be hard, adjusting back to not getting to see each other very often. Harry won’t be going back to the Department of Mysteries until the middle of January, but Ginny has to report to Ireland shortly after Christmas. She’ll have three months of practices, leaving free time on the weekends, but after that the season will begin and she’ll be traveling around with the team for matches nearly every weekend through mid-July.

And it’s not like you can just Apparate between Ireland and England either, the distance separated by magic-dampening water. Not to mention dangerously far even it weren’t restricted by law. International portkey permits aren’t cheap, and while Harry is happy to blow his money on the expense, Ginny can get a little touchy about things like that. The International Floo network is cheaper, but slower, requiring rather lengthy security checks. And it’s not like Harry’s sudden interest in traveling to Ireland would go unnoticed, especially in a public place like the Ministry.

It suddenly seems very important that it remain unnoticed.

Molly is watching him warily at breakfast, and he feels the burn of shame for his behavior all over again--shouting like a lunatic. He honestly doesn’t care what the bloody Burkes think of him, but he didn’t want to embarrass Molly either.

“Is there a paper?” he asks.

“Oh,” she says, probably already having cleared it away, everyone knowing Harry’s refusal to go near it since they started spinning hateful stories about Luna that could only put her in even more danger.

_Tough gig._

“Here you are, dear,” she says, putting it on the table.

“Have Luna and I reconciled?” he tries to joke as he picks it up.

Molly just harrumphs under her breath, muttering something about the no-good editors deserving a good kick to the backside.

There is a small article about a proposed memorial plaque for Orwent Ferriers, Harry notices right off. But dominating the page is an article about the explosion, apparently still worth front-page coverage even after nearly three weeks.

_The Ministry has remained on high alert despite assurances that the attack was an isolated incident. So far no other incidences have been reported, though the Auror Office has been flooded with tips and reports of Death Eater sightings._

_There is still no sign of Harry Potter himself, despite claims by Minister Kingsley that he is well on his way to recovery. Current theories range from a vast cover-up of his death to some sort of disfiguring injury. If indeed the Boy Who Lived has perished, it would strike a hard blow to the current Minister, renewing demands for a stronger Ministry stance to keep Britain safe.  
_

_Still others speculate that it is far more likely Mr. Potter has simply removed himself from the public eye in the name of safety._

_An Auror who spoke with us on condition of anonymity said, “I wouldn’t blame him if he was hiding. The hard truth is, isolated incident or not, Harry Potter will always have a target on his back.”_

Harry pushes the paper away, wincing as the movement sends a lancet of pain through his side.

“Alright, dear?” Molly asks, eyes sharp as always for even the tiniest sign of discomfort on his part.

“Yeah,” he says. “Fine.”

After a morning spent trying to coax spells out of his wand, an afternoon with Ron and Hermione, and a night of restless sleep peppered with nightmares, he wakes to find that the pain in his side hasn’t gone away. He begrudgingly lets Molly send for a Mediwitch.

She examines him in the sitting room while Molly bustles about with the laundry. Waving her wand across Harry’s side, she clucks her tongue. “You’ve torn a muscle.”

“Oh,” he says, supposing that explains it. He can only hope she doesn’t ask him how he tore it.

Fortunately she doesn’t, simply casting a rather intricate spell localized to his side, Harry sucking in a breath at the highly unpleasant sensation of his muscles knitting back together. At least it hadn’t been caused by spell damage, meaning he gets the relatively quick, if not painless, fix.

“You need to be more careful, Mr. Potter,” she says.

He nods, only half paying attention. “Sure.”

He apparently doesn’t sound particularly convincing. “You understand that you have months of rehabilitation ahead of you, don’t you? And that even then…”

This catches Harry’s attention, his head lifting. “Even then, what?”

“Mr. Potter. You have to understand. That curse…”

“I know,” he says brusquely. “I’m lucky to be alive.”

“Yes,” she says. “You certainly are. But it’s more than that. We still don’t know the full extent of its effect on you, the long-term ramifications. You have to prepare yourself for the fact that you may never fully regain your strength. You can’t expect to be able to do everything you did before, exactly as you did it. It’s possible that even your magic…” She shakes her head. 

It’s the ultimate betrayal. Even his body is failing him. How is supposed to protect anyone if he can’t even protect himself?

“But it’s possible,” he presses. “It’s possible everything can go back to where it was.”

“It’s possible,” she concedes, but doesn’t look very certain. “It’s going to take a lot of very hard work on your part.”

Months, she said. Months until he can be strong again.

“Where do I start?”

* * *

Ginny stands in the middle of the flat, surveying the space. After seeing nearly a dozen places, this is the one she came back to see again. The building is pretty much a collection of rooms in an old house, the one she’s currently standing in probably once a dormitory for servants under the eaves. A water closet has been framed off on one side, a small kitchenette installed on the other. The majority of space is taken up by a double bed with a chest at the foot, a small round table with two chairs, an armoire, and a lumpy looking sofa.

A bit sparse, but well within Ginny’s price range, and even more importantly it would be her own. Maybe with some color on the walls, a few bright pillows here and there, Granny Weasley’s old quilt on the bed. It could be home.

Faint noise filters in from the flat below, Arthur frowning down at the floor. “May need to shore up the wards,” he observes.

Ginny nods, running her finger along the edge of the small table. Unbidden, she imagines Harry sitting across from her, their feet bumping, or wedged into the tiny sofa together, him curling up next to her in the bed as they fall asleep. She sees it so clearly, him visiting her here, him being in this space with her, and as unexpected as it is, it somehow makes all of this a little less scary.

“So this is the one?” Arthur asks.

Ginny nods. “Yeah. This is the one.” She smiles at him, giving him a big hug, excitement thrumming in her veins.

They spend the afternoon completing the paperwork followed by a celebratory dinner with just the two of them, something rare enough to be really special. Unfortunately they get caught in early holiday traffic on the way home, having to wait for almost two hours for their turn through the Floo. It’s pretty late by the time they get back to the Burrow.

Harry is still up, reading in the sitting room, and she’s warmed by the thought that he was waiting up to see her.

“Welcome home,” he says, smiling at them.

“Things going well here?” Arthur asks.

Harry nods. “Molly just went up,” he says.

“Ah,” he says. “I think I will too.” He hugs Ginny, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Dad,” she says.

Ginny drops down on the sofa next to Harry, leaning into his side. His arm goes around her, hand tight on her shoulder.

“Hi,” he says, face turning into the top of her head.

She lets out a long breath, snuggling closer into him. “Hi.”

“How was it?” he asks, hand rubbing her arm. “Pick a good one?”

“Just a one-room walk up, but it’s close to the stadium and has a pretty nice view.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is. Or at least it might be with some help.” 

He lets out a soft huff. “I’m sure your mum will be more than happy to take the project on.”

Ginny nods. “Whether I want her to or not.”

The house is quiet around them, the long day and stress of travel dragging on Ginny, making her want nothing more than to curl up and sleep. But maybe that’s really the comfort of being here with Harry like this. She sits there, relishing his closeness, but also feeling this idea she’s been mulling over the last couple days come into firm focus.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?” he says, his voice a soft rumble under her cheek, like maybe he’s almost dozed off himself.

She thinks about the flat, the tiny table and the view over the square. “I think you should come back with me. To Ireland.”

“What?” he asks, like he hasn’t quite heard her right.

“Well,” she says, not sure why she feels as nervous as she does. “You’re not going back to work until mid-January.” They could have weeks together before he had to go back. “And I could show you my flat and the stadium, and you could just…stay for a while.” He could recover there as well as anywhere. 

Harry doesn’t say anything, but she definitely isn’t imagining that the soft relaxation of his body is completely gone.

“Harry?”

“That sounds nice,” he belatedly says. “It really does.”

Ginny sits up to look at him. “But?”

Because there is clearly a ‘but’. Looking at his face only confirms it, and she feels this delicate bubble of hope in her chest start to fade. She isn’t stupid, she knows there is no way Harry could come live with her for weeks without everyone noticing, not to mention having a lot to say about it. It means they will finally have to tell everyone. But they were going to do that anyway, weren’t they?

She licks her lips. “It’s time…isn’t it? I mean, everyone’s going to be here for Christmas soon. Might be the easiest way to just—“ She flaps her hand. “Jump off the cliff.”

Harry is still just sitting there, arm stiff around her, and in any other circumstance she might be amused that she’s urging for the reckless move and Harry’s the one hesitating, but she feels far too sick to her stomach to find any humor in the situation.

“I know it’s my fault we’ve waited this long,” she says.

He finally looks over at her. “I threw that off myself, too,” he says. They were supposed to do this before the explosion. But that was enough to toss everything out the window.

“If you’re worried they’re going to be mad…”

He shakes his head, only to sigh. “I mean, yes, I think they probably will be,” he says like it’s an inevitability, and Ginny can’t really argue that as much as she’d like. Sometimes the hole they’ve dug themselves feels impossibly deep. “But that’s not… I don’t—” He breaks off, clearly frustrated by his inability to put something into words.

His hand presses to his side, his knee jerking up and down in agitation, and Ginny’s alarmed to realize that he looks more panicked than anything.

“You don’t want to tell anyone,” she says, something cold rising up in her body.

“I just—“ He breaks off, cursing under his breath as he drags a hand through his hair. “I need…time.”

Ginny doesn’t move a muscle, every part of her body perfectly still despite the yawning fear opening in her stomach. She somehow forces herself to ask the question. “From me?”

Harry looks at her, confusion clear on his face. “What?”

Somehow she manages to hold his gaze, almost feeling like she is someone else having this conversation, like maybe she’s peering down into someone else’s memories. _This is not me._ “Time as in…not with me?”

It still seems to take him a moment to realize what she’s asking, and then his eyes are widening with horror. “What? No. Ginny. No. That’s not what I…” He reaches for her, like he knows his sputtering words aren’t enough, and she lets him pull her back in against his chest. “I don’t _ever_ want that.”

Only that’s exactly what this is, isn’t it? They’re going to keep this a secret and he isn’t going to come with her. And he’ll be here and she’ll be there and no one will know.

But he needs _time_.

“I do want to tell everyone. I do. I just need a little longer, that’s all.”

She almost says, _but I need you_ , somehow managing to swallow the words back. To keep herself from being that weak. There was a time he gave her all the space she needed after all, all the time she could need to knit herself back together. At the very least, doesn’t she owe him the same?

“Okay,” she finds herself saying.

His entire body seems to soften with relief, like he’d been braced for a lot more resistance. “Really?”

She nods. “It would probably make things weird anyway, telling everyone. This Christmas will be strange enough as it is.”

She doesn’t point out that it seems ridiculous at this point to even try. It’s only a matter of a few days though, and then she’ll be back in Ireland. Far enough away that no one would even think to suspect. Easy.

Harry so rarely asks for things. So she will make it work. Somehow.

He kisses her, just reaches for her right there in the middle of the sitting room. It isn’t smart, isn’t safe, no way to keep a secret—she would know, better than anyone—but she lets herself have one last moment to be reckless.

Tomorrow, she will find a way to make it work. She will make sure no one suspects a thing, shove it all down somewhere no one will ever find it. They will keep their secret and Harry will have his time, as much of it as he needs. For now, he’s kissing her like he won’t ever let go of her, like he’s drowning and she’s the only thing keeping him afloat. She kisses him back with no less intensity, pulling herself up onto his lap, falling into him like there will never be anything but this moment, like the ground below will never rush up to meet them.

With his body tight against hers, his hands in her hair, the crash seems impossible.

She lets herself pretend.

* * *

Harry starts awake on a half-choked cry, hand reached out in front of him as if to grab something. The dream fades quickly, just the lingering sensation of panic and confusion and absolute certainty that he’s lost something. Something he will never be able to get back.

“Alright?” Ron’s sleepy voice comes from the camp bed on the other side of the room.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Of course. Just a dream.”

_Not real,_ he reminds himself.

“Been having those a lot?” Ron asks, voice very casual like he really doesn’t want to set Harry off, a clear sign that he’s maybe been more volatile the last few days than he’d like to admit.

They both know he’s never really been prone to nightmares except in extreme cases. Sure, his sleep was disturbed all the time back at Hogwarts, but that was usually Voldemort—his thoughts and feelings and memories. Ron used to joke it was a miracle Harry didn’t have more, the life he’s had. Maybe finally prying Voldemort out of his soul left room for him to have his own for once. Lucky him.

Harry drags a hand over his face, wiping away a layer of sweat. “Not too much,” he hedges. In fact, they’ve only been plaguing him these last few nights, so it’s not exactly a lie.

“Well, you know if you ever…” Ron offers.

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry says, definitely not wanting to talk about them, especially with Ron of all people. “We should go back to sleep.”

Ron snorts. “You mean enjoy whatever quiet we can while it lasts.”

Harry knows exactly what he means. The Burrow is nearly bursting with people, tomorrow being Christmas Eve. Or rather today, he corrects himself as he glances over at the clock, seeing it’s only a few hours from dawn. Even the Grangers are staying over, clearly having spent enough holidays away from their daughter. The only thing keeping the Burrow from completely being overrun is that Bill and Fleur are spending Christmas in France.

Still, it’s been a bit overwhelming, going from it just being Ginny and her parents to this.

It isn’t long until Ron’s soft snores fill the space again, incredibly familiar, but somehow in no way comforting the way they usually are. Harry lies staring up at the ceiling and tries to master the impulse to go check on Ginny.

She’s fine. He knows this. Not to mention that she has Hermione bunked in her room, and Molly already cast a very unsubtle ward across the girls’ door that Ron had given a dark look upon his arrival the afternoon before. So it’s not like he could go see her anyway, or that she can come to him anymore.

Of course, that’s the way it’s been the last couple days, Ginny nearby but always out of reach.

_It’s for the best_ , he reminds himself.

He doesn’t manage to fall back asleep, just lying there until Ron starts to stir. He closes his eyes, lying very still. Only once Ron is gone does he swing his legs to the floor, getting up and grabbing his wand. He spends the next few hours working on his spells, endlessly aggravated to find only minor improvements. It’s progress, but not _enough_ of it.

He ends up missing breakfast entirely. Not that anyone is going to say anything about it, knowing he’s still recovering and needs a lie-in.

Charlie has his head in the Floo when Harry gets into the kitchen, having arrived at the Burrow the day after Ginny and Arthur came back from Ireland. Molly immediately greets Harry, eyes intent on him as if looking for any sign of pain, and then tries to feed him. It’s nearly lunchtime, so he puts her off, knowing he can wait a couple hours.

Everyone is busy with holiday chores. Even Harry doesn’t escape it entirely, although Molly gives him the least labor-intensive one. He barely gets a glimpse of Ginny once, apparently outside with George and Percy on some holiday mission or another.

Harry usually loves the chaos of the Burrow, the crowd of people, but today it just grates. He’s not sure if it’s his wand work getting nowhere, or just the lack of sleep, or the way Ginny is doing an incredibly convincing job that Harry is at best a mere acquaintance. She’s chatty and warm and affectionate to everyone, it feels, but him. He gets distant politeness and solicitous care, as if she is the reluctant homecare mediwitch and he’s the surly patient.

_It’s what you asked for, you prat,_ he reminds himself as he cracks nuts with ruthless efficiency.

Lunch is a boisterous affair, the table full to bursting as usual. Charlie and Mr. Granger are deep in conversation about dragons and exactly what Charlie’s job entails. Mrs. Granger listens in clear disbelief, continually checking Hermione’s face for confirmation that Charlie isn’t just having them on.

“Suppose it could have been worse,” she says at one point. “Hermione could have been involved with _dragons_.” 

Hermione shifts in her chair, face clearly guilty.

“Hermione Jean,” her mum says, voice stern.

“It was just once! And it was a very nice dragon.”

Ron snorts. “If by nice, you mean blind and half-mad with being treated so horribly.” He glances at Hermione’s parents, seeming to realize that isn’t helping Hermione’s case. “You know, before we rescued it. It was really grateful!”

Mrs. Granger looks to Harry, like he’s somehow the most trustworthy to tell the tale.

“Probably the _least_ dangerous thing we did that day,” he says flippantly, only to get a horrified look from Hermione and a not-so-subtle stomp on his foot from Ron.

“Fortunately,” Ron quickly says, “we much prefer the quiet, safe life now.”

Harry can’t help but let out a derisive snort. “Like that ever matters.” Certainly not to Orwent Ferriers.

There’s an awkward pause as everyone tries their best not to look at him all at once, and he suddenly wishes he’d never come down from his room.

He thinks he feels Ginny’s gaze, but when he looks, she’s turned away, still trying to draw the clearly sullen Percy into conversation.

Mercifully, Charlie launches into another dragon story, and soon enough the meal is done and Harry can escape. He’s up and out of his chair as soon as he can manage without seeming rude, Ron close on his heels. 

“Alright, mate?” Ron asks him, catching him right outside the kitchen.

“Just a headache,” Harry says, which isn’t completely a lie.

“Been practicing?”

Harry shrugs. “Some.”

Ron looks like he’d dearly like to say something more, but is smart enough to keep it to himself.

“I just remembered,” Harry says. “I need to ask your dad about something.” He walks off without waiting for a response from Ron.

He finally tracks Arthur down in the garage. Now empty of the flying car, Harry can see Arthur has filled it with a wide array of Muggle objects. He’s currently standing at a workbench, bits of what looks like what was once an espresso machine spread across it.

“Arthur,” Harry says.

He pauses, looking back at Harry. “Oh, hello. Does Molly need me back?”

Harry shakes his head. “I was actually wondering if you happen to have an old Muggle bike lying around. Maybe one that you don’t have use of?”

“I may,” he says, tapping his chin. “Why?”

Harry shrugs. “Mediwitch told me it was time to start rehabilitating. She said cycling was a good place to start.”

Arthur’s eyes seem to light up. “Certainly. With a few well placed charms…” He nods his head. “Shall we go look in the coop?” His favored spot for hiding things from Molly, as if they don’t all know about it.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “That’d be great.”

He just wants something to do. Some way to get better that isn’t sitting around and bloody waiting to be strong enough.

To be _enough_.

* * *

Ginny watches Harry disappear off into the garage with her dad. She’s always suspected that at least half of her dad’s obsession with Muggle stuff is an excuse to hide away when things get to be too loud for him. She knows as much as he loves them all, it can still be too much from time to time. Charlie’s a lot like him in that way. Harry too, maybe. Or maybe that’s just his mood lately.

Ron and Hermione share a look with each other after Harry leaves. “Just leave him be,” Ron mutters.

Hermione glances up at Ginny, something searching in her expression. Ginny just tilts her head to one side as if she has no idea what Hermione wants.

“Do you know what Harry and your father are doing?” she asks.

Ginny shrugs with indifference. “Haven’t the foggiest.”

Hermione frowns, that look on her face like she’s checked the wrong book out of the library.

Ginny gets swept up into Molly’s vast and varied preparations, something even more intense in her focus this year than usual. Ginny decides humoring her is probably for the best all around.

Molly is finally content enough that they actually get to sit down for a bit, and soon after Arthur and Harry reappear, both of them looking a little worse for wear but more relaxed.

Arthur gives Molly a kiss, their mum pushing him away with a cry, even as she tinges pink. “You’re a right mess, Arthur Weasley. Best not get any of that muck on the furniture!”

Charlie slinks into the sitting room then, his face set in his patented ‘I’ve had a creature hidden under my bed for the last two months without telling anyone and now it may have possibly escaped and also may be poisonous’ expression.

He takes a breath, like bracing himself, and says, “I’m sorry, but they need me back.”

“What?” Molly says, her knitting falling to her lap.

Charlie rubs at his hair. “There’s a rare Romanian Balaur who finally had a successful hatch, but she’s been ignoring the baby. She just went into a rage and nearly trampled it.”

There is a dangerous gleam in their mum’s eye now. “Surely someone else can handle it. It’s the day before Christmas.”

Not to mention he’s only been here two days. Ginny shares an uneasy look with Ron.

“I’m the only one she lets near her. They’re worried they may both die.” Charlie looks at Arthur, clearly hoping for some sort of support.

Arthur nods, hand on Molly’s shoulder. “Of course, if it’s this important—”

“Isn’t it enough that Fred isn’t here?” Mum bursts out, only to immediately slap a hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears.

Without a word, George shifts to his feet and walks out of the room.

Charlie watches George leave, face set in grim lines. “I know this is hard,” he says, and Ginny can tell he is doing his absolute best to stay calm. He has the longest fuse of any of the Weasleys, it usually being near impossible to set him off, unless it’s someone being cruel to creatures or the innocent, but once you get him there…he can be the most caustic and destructive of them all.

“Then why are you doing this?” Molly nearly wails.

“Because I have a responsibility.”

She sniffs. “But not to your family.”

Charlie’s jaw is painfully tight. “I’m not going to let those dragons die just so I can sit and eat sweets and listen to Celestina fucking Warbeck!”

“Charlie,” Arthur says, voice stern.

Molly stands, carelessly bunching up her yarn and tossing it on the seat. “Fine. Then go. We’ll see you next year if you find it convenient enough.” With that, she strides out of the room, her footsteps the only audible sound in the painful silence afterwards.

The Grangers both look like they are trying to sink into their seats, being caught in the middle of the family drama, Hermione’s hand on Ron’s arm. Ginny determinedly doesn’t let herself look at Harry to see his reaction.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie says, voice defeated. “I would stay if I could.”

Holidays are never easy for Charlie. As much as he loves his family—Ginny doesn’t doubt that for a second—there is something brittle between him and Molly that she is beginning to understand more and more the older she gets. It’s not easy, failing to live up to Molly’s hopes for you. 

She overheard them bickering about something the night before, Charlie snapping, _I’m twenty-seven, Mum. I can assure you it’s not a bloody phase._

“We know you would,” Ginny says. “She does too.”

They all know Molly’s reaction is about far more than just Charlie. She’s been throwing all of her energy into making this a normal, perfect family Christmas. Like nothing has changed. But Fred isn’t here and Percy is acting distant again and Charlie is leaving and Bill is off with Fleur and her family and Harry is weak and ill and nearly died.

This might be their new normal, but it is far from perfect.

Charlie doesn’t seem particularly comforted by her assurances, and Ginny can’t help but wish Bill were here.

They all say their farewells, hugging Charlie tight before he trudges upstairs to say goodbye properly to Molly. And then he’s stepping into the fireplace and is gone.

In the unsettled silence after, Arthur goes up to check on Molly, who still hasn’t come down.

Ron gets to his feet. “I suppose I’ll see what’s what in the kitchen.”

Mr. Granger gets up too. “Can I help?”

Ron nods at his girlfriend’s dad. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

“I’ll check on George,” Percy says.

Just like that they all scatter, leaving just Mrs. Granger, Hermione, and Harry.

“Harry,” Hermione says, clearly trying to find something else to focus on. “You’ve got a bit of...” She gestures at her own cheek.

Sure enough, when Ginny looks, Harry has a black streak of what looks like grease or oil or something on his face, no doubt from whatever project he and Arthur were tinkering with.

“Oh.” Harry lifts his hands, similarly stained, grimacing a moment before rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand, only making it worse.

“Just needs a quick charm,” Hermione says, only to wince, probably realizing that Harry is still struggling with his spells. She lifts her wand, stepping towards him. “Need me to get it?”

“I’ve got it, Hermione,” he says brusquely. “I can wash my own bloody face.” With that, he disappears up the stairs.

Hermione’s face goes a bit pink.

“Ah,” Ginny says, “the Christmas spirit is strong in this house. I’ve rarely seen so many jolly people all at once.”

“Ginny,” Hermione says, voice more tired than chastising.

“Harry doesn’t quite seem himself,” Mrs. Granger says tentatively, as if not sure if she should say it. 

“Yes, well,” Hermione says, “he’s never dealt particularly well with being inactive, nor with others being harmed.”

“Much rather be riding a dragon as means of escape from a bank robbery?” Mrs. Granger says archly.

Hermione’s lips twitch. “He’ll be fine in another few days. Or once he gets to eat himself sick on mince pies.” Despite her determination, she doesn’t sound completely convinced.

Ginny looks away, eyes landing on a basket of freshly folded laundry by her mum’s chair. She’s both annoyed and amused to see that George must have brought his dirty laundry home with him, the lazy git. Though possibly also because he knew it would make Molly feel useful and like she still gets to take care of him. Not that George would admit it.

“I’ll finish up the laundry,” Ginny says, lifting the basket up on her hip.

“Need help?” Mrs. Granger offers.

“No, thanks. I’ve got it.”

She climbs the stairs to the twins’ room, pausing at the sound of voices coming from inside—George and Percy, she identifies. She leans slightly closer, just able to make out George’s voice, relieved to hear that he doesn’t sound upset at Mum’s rather brutal reminder of Fred’s absence.

Like George would ever need a reminder.

“Look,” George is saying, “I promised after you got back to always tell you when you’re being a prat. This definitely counts.”

Percy’s response is unintelligible, Ginny resisting the urge to actually press her ear against the wood, fleetingly wishing for an extendable ear.

“I don’t think they’re going to care as much as you think they will,” George says.

Ginny straightens up, deciding that maybe she doesn’t actually want to know. She sets the basket by the door, leaving them to it. When she gets to the stairs, rather than going back down, she continues up one more flight.

The door to the bathroom is shut, a line of light at the bottom indicating that it’s currently occupied. Taking a breath, she crosses over and knocks lightly on the door.

“I told you I could do it, Hermione,” Harry calls from inside, clearly exasperated.

“It’s me,” she says.

Silence is her only response, but just when she thinks he’s going to tell her to get lost as well, the door pulls open. Harry’s hand is braced on the sink, his sleeve pushed up. His cheek is a bit red from scrubbing, his wand lying across the back of the sink. Clearly he hasn’t been able to manage the simple spell after all.

Her eyes return to his face, and he clearly noticed her looking.

“I’ve just never tried it yet,” he says, almost defensive. “Spells take a bit to figure out the first time.”

“Okay,” she says, not willing to give him whatever fight he’s looking for.

Seeming to realize that too, he closes his eyes, his shoulders dropping. “Not that I’ve ever been that great at cleaning charms to begin with,” he admits.

She gives him a small smile, feeling a ridiculous amount of affection for him flare in her chest. “Me neither.”

He turns back to the mirror, giving his cheek another aggravated swipe with a wet flannel.

Ginny glances back over her shoulder before cautiously stepping into the bathroom. “Feel like risking me giving it a go? Fair warning that you might end up losing an eyebrow.”

She fully expects him to say no, but instead he just nods. “I think I can brave it. Just this once.”

She steps further inside, swinging the door shut behind her. Picking up his hand, she charms away the last few clinging bits of grease on the back of one of them, and then the other, finally turning her attention to his face.

“Stop being so tall,” she says.

He dutifully widens his stance a bit, leaning back against the counter to bring his face closer. She touches his chin, lifting her wand.

“Going for a beard or just being lazy?” she asks, nails scratching at the few days old scruff growing on his jaw.

He shrugs. “Hadn’t given it much thought.”

“Hmm,” she says. “I’d offer to help you with that too, but I quite like your face.”

His lips twitch. “Would you mind?”

“Helping you shave?”

He shook his head. “If I grew a beard.”

She looks up from clearing the last few stubborn spots, meeting his gaze. “Might be quite dashing.”

“And maybe people wouldn’t know who I was anymore,” he says like it’s a joke, but she thinks it probably isn’t. They both know a beard isn’t going to stop people noticing him.

“More like everyone would start growing one once they got a few pictures of you. A new fashion craze.”

“They’d probably just assume I’m hiding some hideous new scar.”

“Is it possible Harry Potter no longer has a chin? Inquiring minds want to know.”

Harry chuckles softly, his hand lifting to cup her elbow, his touch gentle.

With one last spell, she lowers her wand. “All done.”

Harry doesn’t turn to check in the mirror, hand just tugging slightly on her arm like a question. “I suppose you shouldn’t really be here,” he says.

“No,” she says, stepping closer. “I shouldn’t.”

“Maybe just a few minutes?” he asks, arm going around her waist.

“Yeah,” she says, folding into him. They should be able to risk that.

She closes her eyes, Harry wrapping his arms around her and holding tight.

* * *

Ginny wakes Christmas morning to a stack of gifts at the end of her bed. She can’t help the beat of excitement she feels at the thought of presents, despite the fact that she is probably old enough to be over it. No doubt her brothers would endlessly take the mickey if they knew.

She still has a wide smile on her face as she rips open the first gift, finding some sugar quills, one of which she immediately puts in her mouth before wadding up the wrapping and tossing it at Hermione’s head.

“Happy Christmas,” she says brightly as Hermione starts awake, glaring over at her.

Ginny points to the end of her bed.

“Oh,” Hermione says, her own face betraying joy at the prospect of gifts. “Happy Christmas.” She pulls a large, misshapen package towards herself.

Ginny turns back to her own stack, pulling out a book clearly from Tobias and a very nice pair of leather chaser gloves from Ron and Harry.

Hermione makes a small sound of what might be distress, and Ginny turns to see her holding a thick purple jumper carefully knit with a large H.

Her first Weasley jumper.

Ginny looks away, pretending not to see the tears in her eyes.

“Open mine,” Ginny says once Hermione has pulled the jumper over her head, her hair an explosion of static. She gestures at the one tied with green string.

Hermione tears the paper, revealing a Ballycastle jersey. She turns to look at Ginny in question.

Ginny shrugs. “We got a really nice discount,” she explains. “I know you’re not really a Quidditch fan, but I figure worst-case scenario you can use it to sleep in.” If she’s wearing much to bed these days, but that is definitely too revolting a thought for Christmas morning.

Hermione smiles, fingers spreading across the Bats logo on the front. “Thank you,” she says. “And I do hope it goes really well for you. Quidditch and being so far from home.” 

Ginny turns back to her gifts. “Yeah, me too.” With that she tears through the last of her gifts. Once she’s pulled on her jumper and eaten another handful of candy, she runs up to the bathroom.

On her way up, she passes George hovering outside his room, his jumper clutched in one hand. Ginny feels her stomach clench. She wonders how many times he’s actually worn his own jumper. Every Christmas as long as she can remember, he and Fred swapped, running around all day cracking jokes and pretending to be each other.

Ginny looks down at her own pink jumper marked with a large G. Without giving it much thought, she pulls it up over her head. 

“Let’s have it then,” she says, tossing it to him.

He catches it, only hesitating a moment before throwing his back to her. He pulls hers on. George isn’t nearly as tall as Ron and Bill, but wide enough that the sweater pulls ridiculously across his chest, the hem barely reaching the top of his trousers. He could easily enlarge it, but that’s far from the point right now.

“Looking good,” she says, particularly enjoying the way the pink clashes with his hair.

He gives her a feeble smile. “I always look good.”

She hugs him on her way past, pulling the oversized blue jumper over her head, the hem falling halfway down her thighs. With a belt and some leggings, it will make a nice dress.

When she gets back downstairs, she hears voices from Bill’s room. She looks in to see that Hermione has joined Ron and Harry.

Ron is holding up a pair of Ballycastle boxers with disgust.

“Now that looks like a great gift,” she says from the doorway.

Ron scowls up at her. “You bought me pants,” he says, clearly struggling to decide if he’s more offended by the type of clothing, or the team colors. 

“I knew you wouldn’t openly wear any gear.”

He moans. “But I’ll still _know_. This is nearly as bad as that time you made me root for Slytherin.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “I can see why you’re with him, Hermione. He really knows how to make a girl feel special.” 

Interestingly enough, Hermione blushes, and that is something Ginny is desperately going to try to forget as soon as possible.

She gives Ron a big wet kiss on the cheek before sitting on the foot of Harry’s bed, his Christmas presents spread between them.

“Get anything good, Potter?” she asks, looking it over. 

He holds up a pair of Ballycastle socks.

She shrugs. “You, if I recall correctly, don’t officially have a team, so it shouldn’t be quite such a burden to wear them.”

Harry smiles. “True.”

Ron snorts. “Should have got him a jersey and then the whole world would suddenly be Bats fans.”

“Good point,” Ginny says. She gives Harry a speculative look. “Just stop wearing shoes so everyone can see, okay?”

“Even better,” Ron says, throwing his pants at Harry’s face. “Wear these the next time you go to the Ministry. And nothing else.”

They all dissolve into laughter as Harry knocks them away.

“There you are.”

Ginny looks up to see Molly standing in the doorway, a pair of fluffy Bats slippers on her feet. “Ginny, dear, there’s just one more thing for you.” 

“Yeah?” she says, looking up in curiosity.

“Your father and I have talked, and we’re going to buy a portkey for you to come home once a month.”

Ginny opens her mouth, but Molly puts up her hand to stop her. “I know you’re an adult and you’ll probably have more interesting things to do, but I want you here at least once a month. The amount of money we are saving by not having to outfit you lot for Hogwarts is astounding. We can certainly afford it.”

Ginny gets to her feet. “I was only going to say that I’d really like that. I’m grateful.”

“Oh,” Molly says.

Ginny steps up against her, hugging her tight. “I’m not Charlie, Mum,” she says. She isn’t going to disappear out into the world, only rarely to return.

Molly’s arms tighten around her.

* * *

After a morning of opening gifts and a raucous match out in the paddock that Harry opts out of despite George trying to goad him into it— _thought it would take more than one measly explosion to break your spirit, Harry_ —they all sit down to a thoroughly decadent mid-day feast. Soon after, a quiet sort of gloom gradually settles over the Burrow. Without much discussion, everyone bundles up and heads for the yard.

Harry, not able to Apparate himself, holds tight to Ron’s arm, the family reappearing on a quiet hilltop lightly dusted with snow. It’s Harry’s first time away from the Burrow since the attack, and he’s startled at first to see figures standing just off to the side. His hand slides down into his pocket.

“Aurors,” Ron says quietly, like the location demands it. “Dad arranged it.”

“Right,” Harry says, following the Weasleys down the hill.

The grave at the bottom is now covered over with grass, only the sharp newness of the marble headstone differentiating it from the darker moss-covered stones nearby. The family quietly gathers around Fred’s grave. Harry stands a short distance away with Hermione and her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Granger clutch hands, faces drawn as Arthur conjures a holly wreath.

It unexpectedly makes Harry think of the Christmas two years before, standing in front of his parents’ grave for the first time. Just like that day, Hermione’s hand slides into the crook of his arm, squeezing firmly.

Harry watches the Weasleys, noting how strangely diminished they look. Ginny and George stand very close together, their mismatched jumpers clashing. Ron is on George’s other side, Percy a few steps further away, almost out of the circle until Ron reaches out and drags him closer. Just the four of them, parents nearby as Molly places a lumpy package against the stone.

And then Molly is talking, filling Fred in on the last few weeks. She leans forward, placing her hand on the stone.

“Happy Christmas, dear. We miss you every day.”

Harry feels a lump rise in his throat, glancing over at Ginny, watching her face as she stands stoically, her arm wound through George’s. Supporting him. Holding him up.

Harry finds himself wishing, somehow, that maybe he could let her lean into him if she wanted.

Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he turns, seeing one of the Aurors circling the area, alert for any trouble.

Harry bites down, his jaw tightening as he trains his eyes back on Fred’s grave.

Back at the Burrow, everyone splits away from each other. Molly takes straight to her bed, and after checking in with each of his children, Arthur follows up after her. George shuts himself in his room, and Percy Apparates away on some mysterious errand. Ginny disappears too, Harry assuming she’s gone to her room. He can’t follow her in there even if it weren’t a terrible idea to start with.

So instead Harry follows Ron and Hermione up to Bill’s room. Ron stretches out on his bed, arms crossed over his chest, Hermione perched hear his hip. Harry sits on his own bed, arms braced on his knees and at a complete loss for what to say.

He shares a look with Hermione, and he supposes she feels nearly as helpless and miserable as he does. They sit in silence for a long while.

Ron’s hand tugs absently at the hem of Hermione’s jumper. “Looks good on you,” he mumbles. “If I didn’t say.”

She looks down at him, her face soft with affection. Her fingers cover his, the touch lingering.

Harry pushes to his feet. “Well, I should probably get going.”

Hermione looks over at him. “Harry, no, you don’t have to—”

“I promised Teddy I’d come see him this afternoon. Seems cruel to make him come here and leave all his new toys.”

“You’re okay to go on your own?” Ron asks. “We could—“

“Nah,” Harry says. “I’m just gonna Floo over. I’ll be fine.”

Ron gives him a grateful look, clearly keen to have a little time with Hermione on his own despite what Harry knows was a genuine offer.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Harry says, closing the door behind him. 

He glances into Ginny’s room as he passes, the door wide open and revealing no occupant. Frowning, he continues downstairs, finding the Grangers in the kitchen, working quietly together on something that is apparently a Granger family Christmas tea tradition.

A quick glance outside confirms that the back stoop is empty. He checks the sitting room next, finally spotting a familiar crown of red hair out the front windows.

He steps outside. Ginny sits on the bench, looking out towards the front path. A soft snow is falling, making everything feel muted and pressed in. Insulated.

“Hey,” Harry says, pulling the door shut behind him. “Wasn’t sure where you’d got to.”

She looks up at him, giving him a fleeting smile that is pained at best. Shifting, she glances back into the house, probably making sure no one can see them.

“Grangers are in the kitchen. Everyone else is upstairs.”

She nods, wrapping her arms around herself. “I just wanted…” She shrugs.

“Some space?”

Her chin ducks down further into the scarf wrapped around her neck. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Do you want me to…?” He cants his head back towards the house.

She doesn’t immediately respond. She’s done such a good job keeping her distance that he feels a bit ham-fisted, like he’s breaking some rule. But then she shakes her head, scooting to the side to make room for him.

He lowers himself onto the bench at what he gauges to be a safe distance away. He isn’t at all sure what to say, but it feels good just to be sitting here with her and hopes that will maybe be enough.

She rubs at her forehead, like maybe she’s fighting a headache and he realizes what she’s really trying to do is hold back tears.

Her other hand is tucked against her leg, and he reaches out, brushing his hand against hers. Before he can pull back, she grabs it, squeezing tight.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, a few tears escaping.

“Don’t be,” he says. He may hate seeing her cry, but it’s somehow easier to handle than that look she had on her face in the cemetery. 

She closes her eyes. “It’s not like it’s the first Christmas or anything. But last year you and Ron and Hermione were all still gone and maybe it just...felt less obvious? And I keep waiting for it to get easier, and it has been, but then it’s suddenly a thousand times worse and I just…” She wipes impatiently at her face. “Fuck. I have no idea what I’m saying.”

Harry looks down at her hand pale in his, brushing his thumb across the faint scattering of freckles across the back of it. “It sounds like you’re saying you miss your brother.”

Ginny sucks in an unsteady breath. “Yeah.” She looks over at him, something haunted in her expression. “But I’m also…”

“What?”

“Really glad you’re okay,” she says, almost in a rush. “I’m glad I wasn’t standing there looking at—“

She breaks off, words dying in her throat, and Harry feels his heart clench, wondering if that’s what she’d seen in the cemetery—what this Christmas could have been like if things had gone just a little differently. “That didn’t happen.”

“No,” she says, her fingers tightening around his. “It didn’t.”

But it could have. It still could. It could have been her.

She slowly sucks in a breath. “I guess I’m just not sure how to be sad and grateful all at once. It’s stupidly confusing.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, because there just isn’t anything else to say.

“So how was your Christmas?” she asks, voice artificially light, like she desperately wants to talk about anything else.

“Pretty good,” he says, willing to do his part. “Only feeling a bit left out.”

“Are you?” she asks, expression creasing like she’s going to fight whoever’s made him feel that way.

He nods, trying to look severe and serious. “Disappointed I didn’t get pants.”

Ginny lets out a startled laugh, and that is much, much better. Wiping the last of the tears from her face, she slides him a look that is very nearly a leer. “Who says I want you wearing pants?”

Harry leans back, pressing his hand to his chest. “Ginevra Molly Weasley.”

Her eyes narrow. “Try calling me that again.”

But Harry can only smile back at her.

“What are you grinning at?”

He shrugs. “You’re cute when you look like you want to hex me.”

“And how do you think I’ll look when I’m _actually_ hexing you?” she says, looking around as if trying to find her wand.

He reaches out, playfully putting his hand over her wand hand, Ginny pretending to struggle against him. He ends up half-leaning over her, their faces close.

She looks up at him, something soft and warm in her expression that has Harry’s heart thundering away in his chest. It rises up again, this feeling that’s been bubbling so long, but he had no idea how to describe, how to put into words. He knows now.

Just one more reason to do absolutely everything he can to keep her safe. And so he deliberately sits back, letting the space between them widen again, no matter how much he doesn’t want to, because the simple truth is that the further away from him she is, the safer she’ll be.

The safer anyone would be, really.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Go see Teddy. I’ll be fine. I might go for a broom ride. Help keep the Grangers from burning down the kitchen.”

He slides her a look. “You? _Stop_ the kitchen from burning down?”

She glares at him, arms crossing over her chest. “Am I looking cute right now?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he admits. He looks at her, trying to see if she’s really as okay as she’s pretending.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “By the time we finish eating, we’ll have stuffed ourselves with too many sweets and drunk too much firewhisky and we’ll make fun of Celestina Warbeck while Mum yells at us and everything will be back to normal.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Harry says.

Neither of them moves, hands still tangled together between them on the bench.

He’ll go in just another minute.

They sit and watch as the snow continues to fall.

* * *

The day after Christmas, Ginny’s brothers all scatter with impressive efficiency. George and Ron head off to deal with Boxing Day sales and returns from livid parents who have been treated to a new product in unexpected ways. Percy back to his secrets. Charlie already gone and Bill not due back until after Ginny leaves.

In two days.

She’s started packing her things, spending the rest of the time getting serious about her training again, her anxiety over the coming move and approaching season bubbling up in flashes she does her best to keep to herself.

Harry seems to have similarly thrown himself into a schedule of practicing his magic. She’s seen him casually using spells around the house, which seems like a great sign to her. But it’s clear he isn’t all that pleased, things not progressing nearly as fast as he’d like, even if his body has begun healing much more rapidly with the return of his magic.

He and her father spend another afternoon in the shed, eventually coming out with a Muggle bike rigged up for Harry’s use.

On her way out the next day, she crosses the landing to see that Harry’s door is partially ajar. Pushing it open, she looks inside.

Thanks to a series of rather ingenious charms, the bike hovers just a few inches above the ground, the wheels spinning in place. The whole rig is perfectly stable despite the punishing pace Harry has set. His shirt clings to his body, completely drenched with sweat, his legs pumping and straining beneath him. In the mirror across from him, she can see that his hair is plastered to his forehead, his eyes focused down on something in front of him.

He looks for all the world like he has a Hungarian Horntail at his back.

After a while he becomes aware of her--or rather, decides he won’t be able to ignore her forever. “Is it time for the daily lecture about not overdoing it?” he asks, breathing heavily. His tone isn’t so much antagonistic as resigned.

She doesn’t respond, and after a moment he lifts his face to look at her in the mirror.

It’s on the tip of her tongue to tell him that everybody’s demons catch up with them eventually, that there’s no point in running forever. But she can tell he probably isn’t ready to hear it. He asked her for time, after all, and she’s already decided she would do everything she can to give it to him.

Leaning against the door jamb, she crosses her arms over her chest. “No lecture,” she says. “I’m just here to enjoy the view while I can.”

All she wants is a smile, anything to break him out of this intensity even if only for a moment.

He just drops his eyes, pace continuing on unabated. “I find that hard to believe,” he says, like maybe his body is the enemy these days.

She tilts her head. “Then you’re an idiot.”

That finally gets the tiniest ghost of a smile. “More like insulting me while you can.”

She shrugs. “I’m a multitasker.”

He continues to pedal, pace finally a bit more reasonable.

“I’ll see you tonight?” she asks. She’s been doing her rounds of farewells, with one last important one to do today.

“Yeah,” he says, and she wonders if he has a countdown going in his head as well. Three days, two days, 24 hours…

“Try not to overdo it,” she says, just to needle him, and he lets out a sound of complaint and waves her away.

Leaving the house, she Apparates to Diagon Alley, the space still a bit emptier than usual. She doesn’t linger, ducking quickly down a side street rather than having to face the reconstruction still underway at the other end of the lane. Her feet carry her along the familiar path, and in no time at all, she is pushing open the door to _Verdigris._

Antonia takes her into the back of the shop, the two chatting easily. They’ve just sat down with tea when the door opens again, Tilly sweeping in, robes swirling behind her and cheeks tinted with winter wind. 

“Well,” Antonia says, standing. “If it isn’t Mistress Bassenthwaite, walking about in the world.”

She does a small turn, dipping into a graceful curtsey. And then she is straightening up, throwing herself into their arms, laughing brightly with what Ginny can only assume is the joy of her freedom. A contract fulfilled, and not a single thing Bassenthwaite’s parents can ever do about it.

“Come,” she says, their hands tight in hers. “Let me show you what we have planned.”

Antonia closes up the shop, the two of them following her back to Diagon Alley, turning down a small lane behind Florean’s. There’s a ramshackle two-story building off a small cobblestoned courtyard. Half of the windows are boarded up, another two visibly darkened with what might be spell damage. They are too far from the site of the attack on Harry for it to be from that, so Ginny assumes it is yet another space abandoned during the war and left to rot.

“Tell me this is not your flat,” Antonia says.

Tilly laughs. “The upper floors, yes. Eventually. But more importantly, you are looking at the future site of Tilly’s Titillating Tipples.” She grins over at them. “Official name still in the works.”

“You’ve bought it?” Antonia asks.

Tilly nods. “Tristram has a good head for figures and did all the haggling over prices. Using all that rot his parents spent so much time instilling in him, I suppose. Only we’re using it for us.”

“How did you do this?” Ginny wonders.

“We used my dower. Tristram said we might as well get _something_ out of this, and his parents already wish him dead anyway so... We’re building it together, and they won’t _ever_ be able to take it from us.” There is something fierce and implacable in her tone as she gazes at the space, a future she will determine spreading before her.

“Well done,” Antonia says, nodding a bit in approval, her lips pressed together in satisfaction.

“Give us six months,” Tilly says, eyes glinting and determined. “And you won’t even recognize it.”

Ginny doesn’t doubt it for a second.

* * *

Far too soon the days remaining become hours and then minutes. Ginny is all packed up, most of her things already sent ahead. Mum is going with her to help ‘set up house’ as she calls it. Which will probably consist of buying her a bunch of home goods and teaching her at least enough recipes so as not to starve. Followed by another day of useless puttering that they will both pretend is endlessly important.

And then Ginny will be there on her own. She’ll have finally started.

There’d been a family farewell dinner the night before, leaving the Burrow relatively calm this last morning, just her and her parents having a private goodbye. She almost wishes for the endless chaos of Hogwarts departures rather than this quiet, endless ticking forward of the clock. Molly desperately looks for any last thing to fuss over and finds none, her father trying to distract them both with snippets from the paper.

As the time for her portkey ticks ever closer, there is still no sign of Harry. He’d been down for breakfast, but disappeared soon after. Like maybe he’s giving her room to be with her parents, but she knows better.

“I’ll just pop up to say goodbye,” she says.

He isn’t in Bill’s room. Across the landing, her own door is slightly ajar. She finds him standing in there, back to the door as he stares out her window.

“Harry.”

He doesn’t move, back still to her. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just couldn’t go down there.”

His shoulders are hunched, his arms crossed over his chest as if protecting himself from something.

It burns on her tongue a moment, the words to ask him again to just come with her, to sod the bloody secret and his _time_ for whatever convoluted reason he’s come up with. She forces herself to swallow them back.

She doesn’t know how to do this. How to say goodbye. There just isn’t anything that can possibly be enough.

She crosses over, touching his shoulder, and like a rubber band snapping, he turns towards her, dragging her into a crushing hug. She grabs him back, burying her face in his chest.

“Ginny,” he says, voice rough. “You should know that you’re… That I…” His arms tighten around her, just on the edge of being painful.

She waits, but whatever he was going to say, he seems to change his mind.

“We can do this,” he says instead.

She feels the press of tears. “We will,” she says, leaving no room for anything other than complete confidence.

“Just a little while longer.” He pulls back, his eyes intent on her face, and then he’s kissing her. It’s a little too hard, inexplicably awkward. Out of nowhere it makes her think of the battle, of that smoky field as Hogwarts burned.

_I wish…_

When he pulls back like he’s run out of breath, like he doesn’t quite know what to do, she looks at his face a long moment and then lifts and kisses him much more softly and all the tension seems to rush out of him at once.

As much as she wants to stay in here with him forever, she forces herself to give him one last hug. Stepping back away from him, she heads out the door, not letting herself look back. She can barely see the stairs under her feet through the tears in her eyes, pausing at the front door to blink them away.

“Ready?” Mum says when she finally steps outside, holding up the portkey.

Ginny forces a smile on her face. “Of course.”

Giving her dad a quick kiss and hug, she shoulders her bag. She grabs the other handle of the old chipped tureen. At the last moment, she glances back up at the house. Harry is standing at the window in her room.

Then she feels a pull in her middle and the Burrow swivels out of sight, taking him with it.


	11. Chapter 11

Ginny pushes open the door to her flat, dropping her gear bag to the floor unceremoniously before kicking the door shut behind her. She somehow manages to drag herself the short distance to the sofa, dropping onto it with a groan. The sun has barely begun to lower behind the horizon, but she already feels like she could crawl into bed and never come back out.

She’d thought her schedule rather ruthless and jam-packed during her probationary period, but apparently that was just the warm up. Now with the season approaching, things are even more intense. Drills. Strength training. Agility training. Studying footage. Experimenting with new plays. All while Ginny is still trying to master the established ones.

Whatever advantage she gained from her much improved broom seems to have leveled off, the speed and complexity of the game a major struggle. She’s somehow hanging on for the most part, at least enough that she doesn’t feel like a total embarrassment, even if only just.

She aimlessly looks around her small flat from her prone position. It’s nearly three weeks now since she moved in. There aren’t any boxes left unpacked—Ginny didn’t have much to begin with and Molly absolutely refused to leave until everything was perfectly in place. Even so, the flat lacks a lived-in feeling, despite Ginny’s less than meticulous upkeep. She had every intention of livening up the rather Spartan space when she first moved in, maybe exploring some of the shops for second hand things, but there just hasn’t been time. For much of anything. Pretty much all she does is eat, sleep, and practice.

None of that helped by the fact that the only thing she finds more exhausting than practice is the idea of going out. As hard as things are on the pitch, it’s at least comforting in its familiarity. It’s the other things that are unexpectedly difficult. Small things like going to the market or navigating the owl post. It’s not that it’s all that different, it’s just different to her. She’s never been more aware of the fact that she’s never really been on her own before. Even at Hogwarts she had at least a brother or two nearby. She had The Parlor. She had the DA. She had Tobias.

She had Harry.

Draping her arm over her face, she relaxes back into the cushions. There’s a paperback open on the arm of the sofa, something sent by Tobias, but it hasn’t been able to hold her attention. Just like the stack of letters on the seat next to her, destined to be ignored for at least one more day.

She starts awake much later at the sound of someone knocking on the door, the flat completely dark now. She gropes around for her wand, muttering a spell to light the lamps.

“Yeah?” she says, pulling the door partially open.

It’s one of the wizards from downstairs. There’s at least six of them in the small two room flat as far as she can tell, none of them much older than herself.

“Hey, Ginny,” he says, giving her a winsome smile.

“Hey, Riley,” she says, pulling the door open a bit more.

“We’re gonna go out. Thought you might want to tag along.”

It’s hardly the first time they’ve asked, but so far she’s always said no, claiming exhaustion. None of them ever seem all that offended, just shrugging and saying, “Suit yourself,” before giving her a jolly wave and disappearing. She wonders, though, what they do, where they go. What it would be like to just have a little fun for once. To leave her apartment for more than work and food.

Ginny gnaws on her lip, looking back into her impersonal flat. No matter how tired she is, maybe it’s time to start saying yes. To at least try for…something.

“Just to be clear,” Ginny says. “I’m never going to date or shag any of you. But I’ll hang about and make you look normal to other girls.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “How do you feel about karaoke?”

Ginny frowns. “A what?”

That’s how she learns about a Muggle songstress called Britney Spears.

Slightly hoarse and more than slightly drunk, Ginny makes her way back to her flat in the wee hours of the morning. She stands in her empty, tiny flat, a hollow sort of exhaustion like a black hole yawning in her chest. Digging through the drawer by her bed, she pulls out her charmed parchment. 

The quill drips a bit with her clumsy use, ink splattering the surface, and she impatiently wipes at it with her hand and starts scribbling words that she feels like she might choke on if she doesn’t finally get them out.

_It’s 3 am and I am drunk sitting in my own flat in my new town and I have practice in four hours. It’s scary as hell. But I’m doing it. I am doing this. I am making it work._

She pauses, staring down at the words swimming in front of her.

_I think about you all of the time. I try not to, but it’s impossible not to. Almost as impossible as lying in my bed at night thinking of you and not touching myself and pretending it’s you. You could be here if you said yes. You could be here if I asked, really asked. If I told you… If I bloody asked_ why _.  
_

_You could be here, and maybe I wouldn’t be so scared._

She feels the unexpected press of tears, shoving the parchment away from her. She lies back on her bed and stares up at the ceiling as it swivels above her.

“You’re bigger than this,” she whispers. “You’re Ginny Weasley. You can do anything.”

She wakes in the morning to the shrill sound of her clock telling her to get her arse out of bed. She feels like death warmed over, and a bit like someone put ashes in her mouth.

She swings her legs out of bed with a groan, her toes landing on something that crinkles. Her words from the night before are staring up at her, ones she barely remembers writing. She snatches it up in horror only to realize it’s actually the back of a takeaway menu.

She lets out a ragged laugh, hovering between blind relief that Harry will never see it, and the rash impulse to send it now. Then she remembers Harry on that bloody bike, riding like the fate of the world rested on him. Again.

Fishing her wand out from under the bed, she whispers a spell, words and paper disappearing in a satisfying flash of fire. Like they never existed. Like she never even thought them.

At practice, she nearly throws up more than once, but somehow manages to survive the day.

Slogging back up the stairs to her flat that afternoon, she passes Riley sitting on the top step of the landing. She stops, looking down at him. “I feel very poorly about karaoke, for the record.”

He smiles, looking up at her with red-rimmed eyes, and lifts his beer bottle to her in salute. “Sometimes all you can do is carry on.”

“True enough,” Ginny says.

One flight above, she goes into her flat, shutting the door firmly behind her.

* * *

“You’ll be late to work!”

Rolling over, Harry slaps at his alarm only to miss, the sodding thing skittering well out of reach.

“No one likes a slug-a-bed!”

With a growl, Harry grabs his wand and flings a spell at it, satisfied to see it freeze mid-shrill shout.

Collapsing back on the mattress, he stares up at the canopy above him. Light filters through the partially open curtains on the windows. It’s weeks now he’s been back at Grimmauld. He hadn’t lingered long at the Burrow after Ginny left, making his excuses to return home. Arthur had laughed and accused him of making a run for it while Molly’s back was turned, and Harry supposed that was safer for him to think than the truth, which was that he just couldn’t stand being there without Ginny.

He’s spent the majority of his time since then watching Teddy and working on his spells and riding his damn bike. But he thinks maybe he’s starting to get there. Well enough that he’s finally going back to work. Hence the alarm. 

Rolling out of bed, he heads down the hall for a shower.

Once showered and dressed, he finds Ron in the kitchen, lingering over breakfast.

“Morning,” Harry says with a stifled yawn, the shower not having done much to wake him up. Normally he doesn’t have a problem with early mornings, but he’s still having the sodding nightmares more often than not. Though sometimes if he works hard enough, he’s so exhausted they don’t come.

Last night he hadn’t been quite so lucky. 

“Hey,” Ron says, shoving a cup towards him.

Harry settles at the table, pouring himself tea and reaching for a piece of toast. “Hermione gone already?”

Getting up, Ron putters about the stove. “Yeah. She wanted to do ‘a bit of extra research’ before work.”

Harry snorts. “Sounds about right.”

“She said to tell you that she hopes you have a nice first day back.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“I told her that was unlikely considering you haven’t touched a single one of those books they sent for you to read.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s not my fault I’ve been too ill to read them.”

Ron laughs. “So that’s what you’re going to try. Just be sure to cough a bit and look really pathetic when you say it.” 

Returning to the table, Ron sets down a plate in front of Harry, egg and soldiers carefully arranged on it.

“Really?” Harry says, looking dubiously down at it, half amused, half annoyed. 

“Eat up, you’ll need your strength,” Ron says, his lips barely twitching.

Harry rolls his eyes, but digs in anyway without further comment.

He was unsurprised to find that Ron had practically moved in while he was away. He still has a room above the shop, for all he probably spends only one or two nights a week there. When he’s here, he seems to go out of his way to be useful, like he’s earning his keep or something.

“You know I really don’t mind,” Harry says yet again.

“What?” Ron asks.

“If you move in here. Instead of just looking guilty in the mornings and skulking about in yesterday’s clothes.”

“Yeah, well, Mum would have kittens if she suspected Hermione and I were…” He breaks off awkwardly, his ears turning red.

Harry takes pity on them both. “Living together?”

“Yes,” Ron says in a rush. “Living together.” Then his brow draws together as he realizes what he just said. “Oh, Merlin. We’re living together.”

Harry doesn’t point out that the three of them have been living together in one way or another for ages, knowing they are talking about something entirely different. “I don’t think Molly would be as upset as you think she would. Bill and Fleur lived together.”

“Yeah, but only after they were engaged,” Ron says.

Harry raises his eyebrows, wondering how long it’s going to take for Ron to register what he’s said.

It doesn’t take long.

“I need to sit down,” Ron says, his freckles stark against his skin.

Harry pats him on the shoulder. “You are sitting down.”

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

Harry goes back to eating his breakfast, one eye on Ron. “That bad?”

Ron glances up, clearly startled. “What? No. You know I love her. I’m not just…messing about.”

Harry blinks, not sure if he’s more thrown by the casual way he just said that— _you know I love her_ —or the realization that Ron is honestly considering it.

His face must betray his surprise, because Ron squirms a bit and says, “Do you think that’s mental? Us only being twenty?”

Ron isn’t even that, not for another month and a half, but Harry doesn’t bother pointing that out. “I think that’s how old my parents were.” Which _is_ mental to think about.

“Mine were even younger,” Ron says.

“You’re seriously considering this.”

“I dunno…maybe I am.”

Harry contemplatively dips a soldier in the yolk. “Not just so you can make your mum happy though, I would hope.”

“Don’t be daft,” he says dismissively. “Speaking of how old and manly we are, are you really keeping it then?”

“What?” Harry asks.

Ron gestures at his chin. “This whole mess. I thought maybe it was just a hols thing.”

“I was hardly on holiday.” Harry scratches at his chin. “Do I look weird, with a beard?”

“If you can call that patchy disaster a beard,” Ron says with a scoff.

Harry chucks a bit of toast at him. “Think you can do better?”

Ron expertly catches the toast, shoving it in his mouth. “Could grow it down to my belly button inside a month, I reckon.”

“We aren’t talking about chest hair, mate.”

They continue to cheerfully take the piss until it’s time for Harry to go in. His much improved mood lasts just until he steps foot in the atrium, greeted with more than a few startled looks. Apparently the theory that he’s dead is as popular as ever. And clearly the beard has done nothing to hide his identity. Ducking his head, he escapes down into the DoM, away from most prying eyes.

He gets a few second looks as he crosses the lobby and the large round room housing the entrances to the research vaults, but everyone is the same bizarre combination of distracted and focused he remembers. It’s a much-welcomed indifference.

It feels at once as if a lot of time has passed, but also like he just woke up and came to work like no time at all has passed.

He finds the other apprentices in their small, shared office, heads in books—likely the ones Harry hasn’t yet finished for their seminar. No doubt they are reviewing the texts for the dozenth time, making sure to have enough good points and arguments to stand out during discussions.

The older apprentices—Circe, Amelia, and Roman—are standing near a kettle, deep in conversation with a wildly curly-haired wizard Harry’s never seen before. He’s about the same height as Roman, but deeply tan as if he’s spent a great deal of time out of doors.

“Still can’t get used to wearing shoes,” Harry hears him say.

Roman is the first to notice Harry’s arrival. “Well, look who finally decided to stop lazing about.”

Everyone else looks up, a few apparently happy to see him, and others just annoyed at the interruption.

Hilda leans over to poke Gaspar. “I told you he wasn’t dead.”

He shrugs. “It’s not like there was any evidence to the contrary.”

Lucas looks up from his book, more bored than anything. “I just want to point out that none of us were involved in explosions, even without you here.”

Roman laughs. “More proof that it’s him, not us.”

“Right,” Harry says, not at all amused.

That morning their seminar class meets with an older wizard just a few years short of finally achieving Unspeakable status. Teaching duties usually fall to this category of workers, mostly because actual full Unspeakables find educating apprentices beneath their dignity.

Despite his claims otherwise, he actually did at least skim most of the books. He even found them interesting enough, but as he sits there and listens to his fellow apprentices debate and tear apart the tiniest detail like it’s the most fascinating exercise on Earth, it has never been clearer to Harry what a ridiculous idea it was, coming here. Did he really do this just to stick it to Trenton MacMillion? And how is that not the same as letting him dictate his life for him?

What exactly did he expect to do down here?

He can’t help but think what a fucking waste it all is.

At lunch, Mintumble appears, impassively looking Harry over. “We’re to keep you on light duties. Which for the time being will mean assisting the library clerks.”

The other apprentices snicker, this job clearly the least liked. If apprentices are considered generally beneath most people’s notice, the clerks doing the rudimentary tasks to keep the department running seem to be generally thought of with a level of disdain reserved for those without lofty academic goals. There is no path from clerk to Unspeakable. A dead end, some seem to think.

Harry honestly couldn’t care less, spending the afternoon following a clerk called Ethelyn around the library, reshelving books, and trying to master the bizarre organization system used. At least _that_ he can handle.

He’s been there maybe an hour when a memo flies in, Ethelyn rolling her eyes.

“Stupid git. Here,” she says, turning to Harry and shoving a book in his hands. “Take this to Unspeakable Harlan.”

If he’s learned one thing at least, it’s how to navigate the department. That had taken months, and fortunately no major changes seem to have happened in the month and a half he’s been away. Meaning he’s barely paying attention when he pushes open a large door, expecting the long hallway to the back laboratories. When he finally looks up, though, he is somewhere else entirely. 

It’s a cavernous room, the ceiling nearly lost to darkness and rows and rows of stone terraces radiating down to a central platform on which stands a stone archway. Even though the room is still, so horribly still that the air itself feels like solid ice, the ragged veil hanging from the archway swells and retreats hypnotically. 

Harry takes a giant step back, letting the door swing shut. Turning, he heads blindly down the hall until he is far, far away.

Reorienting himself again, he heads for Harlan’s labs. He double-checks the name on the door before knocking. Someone calls him in. He lets out a breath.

Pushing the door open, Harry walks inside.

The archway stands in the middle of the room, veil moving gently. Beckoning him.

“What the hell,” Harry says, backing out and slamming the door shut.

Harlan’s name plaque still hangs perfectly in the center of the door. 

_It can’t be real,_ he thinks, spending a moment wondering if this is a dream.

“Harry?”

He turns, and it’s Amelia, watching him with concern.

Walking over to her, he presses the book into her hands. “Get this to Harlan, will you?”

She glances over at the office clearly only a few feet away, but takes the book anyway. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

Harry nods. “Had enough for today, I think. I’m going home.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, still looking confused. “I’ll let Mintumble know.”

“Thanks,” Harry says and strides away, making straight for the lobby, not really letting himself breathe until he’s in the lift.

He leans back against the wall, hands on the rail as the lift swoops and zooms upwards, memos gathering overhead with each stop. The entire building feels like it’s pressing down on him, and he just needs to get _out_ .

The lift doors finally open on the atrium and Harry tries not to run.

There’s a burst of sound and light as he emerges, and it’s so disorienting—the panic in his head so loud—that it takes him a moment to realize it’s people shouting questions and taking photos.

“How are you, Mr. Potter?”

“Back at work?”

“Have your injuries healed?”

“How do you feel about what’s happened?”

“Have you really been hiding? Where?”

“How is Miss Lovegood?”

“Are you going to visit the memorial?”

Harry pushes past them, ducking his chin and making straight for the fireplace. In a flash of green he reappears in the entrance toilets. Stumbling out into the street, he Apparates away.

Back in Grimmauld, he climbs the stairs and gets on his bike, riding hard until all he can hear is the rush of his breathing in his ears.

* * *

The next morning, Harry feels a bit stupid. He should have anticipated the press and surely there is a simple explanation for ending up in the Veil Room. Hell, maybe he just imagined it. Hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation. By the time he walks into work, he rationalizes it as just a weird fluke. None of which eliminates the heavy dread in his stomach as he crosses the department lobby.

He sticks close to the other apprentices that morning, doing his best to never be on his own, letting other people walk into rooms first. Most of them are working on various research projects, and Harry concentrates on getting caught up on the seminar reading, borrowing Hilda’s notes as he follows her around.

The morning passes uneventfully, Harry arriving in the library to help Ethelyn again without any trouble, and Harry’s just begun to relax a bit when Circe sweeps in.

“Harry,” she says. “They need someone to help clean up the wet lab and you’re it. Congratulations.”

“But I’m helping Ethelyn,” he says, preferring to stay where he is for many reasons, not the least of which is wet lab clean up is generally disgusting.

“Oh, she won’t miss you, I’m sure,” Circe says dismissively, not even addressing Ethelyn. Even scrubbing a lab is apparently considered closer to the action than cataloging texts. It’s not even the special collections library, but the reference section.

“Go ahead, Harry,” she says, clearly used to being treated like she’s invisible.

Reluctantly, Harry follows Circe back across the department. He knows perfectly well where the wet labs are, but he’s thankful she seems to be heading in the same direction. She turns off right before he gets there.

“This one, right?” he asks, pointing at the door.

She steps back into the hall, giving him a look of annoyance. “Yes. As I’ve said a dozen times.”

“Are you sure?” he can’t help asking.

She doesn’t bother responding, turning and walking away without another word.

Harry eyes the door, checking and rechecking the placard. “You’re being stupid,” he tells himself and opens the door.

It’s the Veil Room.

_What the actual fuck,_ he thinks, immediately escaping back out into the hall. 

Circe isn’t far, turning back to look at him. “What?”

He doesn’t answer, still staring at the door.

She crosses over to him and opens the door, and it’s exactly what it was supposed to be, a slightly repulsive wet lab. 

He lets out a shaky breath.

Circe peers at him. “I would ask if you suffered head damage or something, but maybe you’ve always been like this. And, no, you aren’t getting out of clearing it up.” She gives him a push, urging him through the door. “Try to keep your weirdness to a minimum, will you?”

The door closes behind him.

Refusing to think on it, Harry concentrates on clearing up the lab. Once he finishes, he doesn’t return to finish his shift in the reference library, instead heading straight out of the department, ducking through the assembled throng of reporters that is no less loud and intent than the day before, and making his way home.

Safely back in his room, he glances at the bike, instead turning to the small table stacked with books as well as an inkwell and a single sheet of parchment. It’s starting to look a little worse for wear at this point, the lower corner ripped away, a large crease across one side that he’s never been able to smooth out. But the charms are still holding.

In the weeks since Ginny’s been gone, they’ve tried to get back into their habit of chatting at 9 o’clock, but she rarely makes it awake that long and Harry has a hard time getting away from Ron and Hermione any earlier most days. Today he’s early enough that Hermione is still at the Ministry. At least this is one good outcome.

_Ginny?_ he writes.

_Hey. You’re home early._

_One of the benefits of everyone still treating you like an invalid, I suppose._

_Well, I for one am grateful._

_How are you?_

_Knackered.  
_

_Practices going well?_ He’s barely heard anything about it, Ginny claiming to want to talk about anything other than bloody Quidditch.

_Well enough. Still kicking my arse, but I suppose that’s to be expected. How is it being back at work?_

He doesn’t even pause to think. _Fine,_ he writes. _They have me on light clerical work._

_Exciting._

He lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. _You have no idea. Threat of papercut around every corner._

_Scary._

_Get a chance to explore the village yet?_ Harry asks, keen on pushing the conversation along.

_Yeah. A bit. I let myself get dragged out by the people in the flat below a few nights ago. Took me to a nearby Muggle town._

_Was it fun?_

_Yeah. It was fine. Turns out karaoke is not for me though._

All of her teammates are older than her, and she doesn’t seem to want to blur that line between work and personal. Meaning she hasn’t had many people to be around. He’s glad to see she’s finally finding some people.

_Going to hang out with them again?_

_Maybe._

They’re both quiet then, clearly having run out of things to say.

_I think I hear Hermione downstairs,_ he eventually writes. _Talk to you later?_

_Yeah._

He sets the parchment down, but before he can walk away, it makes a slight humming sound again. He glances down at it.

_Harry?_

_Yeah?_

_I’m glad everything’s going okay._

_Me too._

Pacing away from the parchment, he climbs up on the bike and starts to pedal.

* * *

The next morning, Harry walks into the DoM. He crosses over to the apprentice offices, clearly able to see Lucas and Gaspar through the window. He walks through the door and here he is. Again.

The fucking archway.

He tries to step back out, but the door has closed behind him. He twists the handle, shoving it open, stepping through only to end up right back in the Veil Room. He tries again and it’s the same over and over, the room absolutely refusing to let him go. He’s nearly out of breath, his heart thundering way in his chest when the door finally remains shut, refusing to open.

He pushes at it, kicking it, pulling his wand and trying to unlock it, to do anything to get the hell out of here, and it’s all bubbling, rising up in his throat until he’s spinning on his heel.

“What do you want?” he shouts at the archway.

The empty room, of course, has no answer.

Harry stands and seethes, considering yelling again, maybe cursing the bloody door down, rattling at the stubborn handle again and again.

At first he thinks it’s just the rush of his breathing in his ears, but slowly over the pounding of his heart another sound is building, louder and louder like static or rushing wind.

He turns.

“Harry,” he thinks he hears.

Almost against his will, he steps down the stairs to the central platform. He watches the gently floating surface, the voices louder and louder but no less clear.

“Sirius?” he asks.

A voice responds, ever so gentle and just out of reach.

He lifts his hand towards the undulant surface.

“Potter!”

He spins, very nearly losing his footing, but managing to stumble _away_ from the archway.

Madam Goldhorn watches him from the doorway above, her hand outstretched and mouth open. Once it’s clear he isn’t going to dive headfirst into the veil, her hand presses back to her chest.

Reality seems to slam back into Harry all at once, and forefront in his mind is the thought that he’s probably going to get it now for being in the forbidden room. Madam Goldhorn has been clear about none of them being allowed in here. 

“What are you doing in here?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he admits, not really sure what else to say.

“Am I to believe you just found your way here randomly?”

He blows out an exasperated breath. “Look. I just keep ending up here and I…I don’t know why.” It sounds like the feeblest, most pathetic, cocked-up lie ever. And that’s speaking as Roonil Wazlib.

Only instead of calling him on it, she merely looks at the archway and then back to him. She starts slowly down the steps, one hand holding her heavy cloak free of her feet. “This is the oldest part of the Ministry. Did you know that? Some say it was here before the Ministry was founded. A cave deep underground. Even after all this time, all our studying, we still have no idea who built it or for what purpose. A banishment site, maybe. An execution tool. Others wonder if it is more a passage… A road like any other. Some claim to hear the gods themselves speak.”

She looks at him, her dark eyes glittering. “What do you hear, Harry?”

Harry steps away from the archway, the voices still mumbled and tantalizing and no quieter for the distance. “I don’t know.”

“Voices?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

Goldhorn is quiet for a long stretch, and Harry doesn’t dare interrupt her. “You are clearly meant to be here, for some reason or another.”

“What?” Harry says.

She nods. “That will be your assignment. Figure out why you’re here, and let me know when you have, will you?”

With that, she leaves.

“What?” Harry says to the empty room.

It’s less than an hour later when a wide-eyed wizard appears with a stack of books. He places them on the ground before backing immediately away. “Madam Goldhorn sent these,” he says and then disappears.

Harry races up the stairs, the door clicking shut before he can get there, and sure enough, it’s still locked.

He looks down at the books, but he doesn’t want to study or read theory or listen to Goldhorn hypothesize about why he’s here. He wants to stop fucking coming here.

He sits with his back to the archway, staring at the door.

The whispers just build and build and, god, he hates this room so fucking much.

“What the hell do you want?” he shouts, shoving up to his feet. He picks up a book, chucking it at the platform. “What the fuck do you want from me? Haven’t I given enough?” He throws another book. “Haven’t you fucking taken enough?”

He runs down the steps, right onto the platform, like he’s ready to curse and fight and _do something_ . But there is no one to fight. Nothing but whispers and empty spaces.

“No,” he says, refusing to play whatever game this is. “No.” 

Turning, he runs up the steps. At the top, he doesn’t pause, just turns and runs along the outer rim until he gets to the next staircase, heading down. He repeats the pattern. Up. Down. Over and over again, until his breath is heaving and his legs are burning. There’s a stitch in his side. He doesn’t stop until he is completely exhausted.

He picks up one of the books— _The Mysteries of Death_ —and puts it under his head as a pillow, drifting off to the sound of endless whispers.

* * *

Ginny winces as she takes a bite of toast. It’s the heel of the loaf that toasting and slathering with butter hadn’t quite managed to eliminate the staleness of. She probably won’t be able to avoid going to the market today. It’s Saturday, which means she has plenty of time, but that doesn’t make her look forward to it.

There’s a knock at the door. She glances at the clock, confirming that it is far too early for the boys below to be bothering her, but there really isn’t anyone else it could be. For a moment, her completely unhelpful brain wonders if it’s someone come to fire her.

“Don’t be stupid,” she mutters to herself before heaving to her feet and opening the door.

It’s Bill.

He lifts his hands. “Now don’t get angry,” he says, “I just wanted to make sure—”

She launches herself at him, hugging him tight.

He seems thrown a moment before he’s wrapping his arms around her, lifting her up off her feet with a laugh. “Well then, not quite the welcome I was expecting, but far more pleasant certainly.”

Ginny pulls back, thumping him on the arm. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting my baby sister, of course. Do I need more reason than that? Now show me around this pathetic excuse for a flat or have I already seen it all right here from the hall?”

She crosses her arms over her chest.

He lifts a bag. “I brought food?”

“All forgiven,” she says and pulls him inside. She gives him a perfunctory tour of the flat, none of which requires actually going anywhere.

They finally sit on the floor across from each other, eating Chinese food out of cartons, Bill filling her in on various bits of family gossip.

“Mum and Dad haven’t been out again yet?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I haven’t been here that long.”

“George? Percy? Ron? That funny friend of yours with the stuck up parents?”

She shakes her head. 

Bill regards her over his chow mein. “Ginny.”

“What?” she says, voice harder than she intends.

“You aren’t being stupid and trying to do all of this on your own, are you?”

She jabs her chopsticks into her walnut shrimp, knowing she should just tell him to mind his own bloody business, but he just looks steadily back at her and she can’t help it. “I should be able to, shouldn’t I?” she says.

“If you don’t think Mum was over at my first flat every weekend cooking for me, you are out of your bloody mind.”

She looks up, feeling stupidly hopeful. “Really?”

He shakes his head, giving her an exasperated smile. “Oh, Ginny. Always trying to prove something.”

“I am not,” she mutters.

He ruffles her hair. “Keep telling yourself that, sprog.”

She shoves him off. “Well, Mum hasn’t come out and cooked for me,” she points out.

“Only because you’ve made it abundantly clear you have no patience for being coddled.”

“What, and she’s actually honoring my wishes for once?”

“It’s a miracle,” Bill says. His brow furrows as he digs through his food. “It isn’t weak, needing people.”

Ginny looks down at her food, but doesn’t reply.

With Bill by her side that weekend, she’s brave enough to venture out into the village, poking around shops and pubs, walking some of the trails winding out into the fields.

After Bill leaves she’s back in her empty flat with another long week of practices ahead of her, but it doesn’t seem quite so impossible anymore.

Her dad shows up a few days later, and she’s pretty sure that isn’t a coincidence.

She smiles at him. “Want to see the stadium?”

* * *

Two weeks.

Harry has ended up in the Veil Room day after day for the last _two weeks_. He’s given up fighting it at this point. The books are all neatly lined up along the wall for all that Harry still has no interest in reading them. The only other major change is the platform, which now has a mat and a sparring dummy off to one side of the archway.

The whispers are still there, a constant drone that Harry hasn’t gotten so much used to as practiced at ignoring. He decided early on that he certainly wasn’t going to sit around contemplating death all day, and so he’d shrunk down and smuggled in some equipment. He’s going to make use of this bloody time and get his strength back, no matter what the mediwitches and this sodding room try to say otherwise--he isn’t dead and he isn’t weak. Besides, it also keeps him from going bloody mad of boredom.

And so he runs up and down the stairs until the burn in his thighs is too painful to ignore. He does pushups and situps and whatever other exercises he can think of. If he does enough of them long enough, he almost can’t hear the whispers. It becomes an unspoken contest of sorts—Harry drowning it out as best he can.

After lunch and a short nap, he usually spends time working with his wand, but for some reason the whispers seem louder today and his concentration is shot. He barely lasts half a day. Most days, even with all the distractions, he can’t stand to be there for more than five or six hours, but the room seems okay with that, like it knows when he’s near the breaking point, the handle routinely opening without protest mid-afternoon, for all it immediately swallows him up the next morning without fail. Like it doesn’t want him forgetting it. As if he bloody could. 

Sometimes he spends the rest of the day in the library with Ethelyn, doing rudimentary clerical work. Today he can’t face it, his mind preoccupied with another project, so he just leaves early.

He hasn’t seen the rest of his fellow apprentices much. He has no idea what they think of his new special assignment. Fortunately everyone seems to have given up on him doing any actual work, Goldhorn apparently not interested in checking on his progress, which is more than fine with him.

He thinks the only reason he hasn’t stopped coming altogether is because he isn’t sure how he would explain that to Ron and Hermione. They already watch him closely enough these days, like he’s one second away from cracking.

In the atrium, there’s a reporter or two hanging about as usual, but Harry just ignores them, letting them take as many pictures as they like.

In Grimmauld, he sets up on the second-story landing.

“Harry?” Hermione calls up the stairs a while later.

Harry glances at the old grandfather clock resolutely ticking away across the landing from him, surprised to see that so much time has passed that Hermione’s back from work already. 

“Up here,” he says, shifting a book off his lap.

She appears at the top of the stairs, cheeks rosy and hair flyaway as if she’s just been walking quickly outside. She looks at the books splayed around Harry. “What are you doing?”

Harry turns back at the unused cloak closet in front of him. “Rigging up a second exit.” He’s been thinking about it ever since Ginny first suggested it, but only lately has it seemed really imperative.

Hermione’s eyebrows furrow, and she’s quiet a moment like she’s thinking through what’s best to say. More than likely trying to avoid setting Harry off, but he finds being treated like a ticking time bomb has the exact opposite effect.

“Is that really necessary?” Hermione finally decides to say.

“Not just doing it for amusement,” Harry can’t help snapping back. It’ll mean they have a way to exit the building that doesn’t go out onto the main square where Harry has more than once seen people lingering. It’s about privacy more than anything, he tells himself.

Hermione sighs. “If you’re really worried we aren’t safe here, I’m sure the Ministry would send someone over from the Auror department to check the wards.”

Harry snorts. “And that’s somehow supposed to make me feel _safer_?”

“You have to trust someone sometime, Harry.”

“I trust you. And Ron. And—” He breaks off. “All of the Weasleys.”

“Oh for goodness’ sake,” Hermione says, dropping down next to him. “Let me help you.”

They pour over the books, debating the different combination of spells and runes that might make it work. They’re still there when Ron arrives.

“What’s this then?” Ron asks. “Having a study party without me?”

“Feeling left out?” Harry asks.

“No, not a jot. I appreciate being left out. Now come on, you two, away with the books. It’s time to eat.”

Harry rolls his eyes, getting to his feet while Ron and Hermione greet each other properly.

“You all right?” Ron asks, clearly not distracted enough to miss the way Harry winces at the pain in his back as he pushes to his feet.

“Yeah, fine,” Harry says. “My foot just fell asleep.”

He sits through an awkward dinner with Ron and Hermione, having to endure multiple attempts to ask how he is and how work is and how his boss is until he finally snaps that everything is bloody well fine and hides away in his room the rest of the evening like a coward.

Lying back in bed, he stares up at the canopy.

Hearing a message arrive from Ginny, he rolls over on his side and closes his eyes.

* * *

Ginny is enjoying a rare lazy Saturday morning when someone bellows up the stairwell at her.

“Weasley! There’s a melter on the Mug-line for ya. Get yer arse down here right quick!”

She sighs, setting aside her book and loping down the stairs.

The telephone is ancient and no one seems to know who originally rigged up the Muggle device in the first place or why. It has its uses though, even if just to occasionally indulge her dad by letting him call her, or for some of the blokes in the building to have a way to ring the odd Muggle girl for a date.

She wonders sometimes, what that first conversation is like, trying to tell someone you’re in a relationship with that you aren’t quite what they always thought. 

She picks up the handset. “Hello?” she says, reminding herself not to yell. Apparently the other person is able to hear her as if she’s in the same room.

“Ginny? It’s Hermione.”

“Hermione?” Ginny asks, wondering what in the world could possibly merit a phone call. “Is everything okay? Is Ron—?”

“No,” Hermione says. “He’s fine. Everyone’s fine.”

Ginny blows out a breath. “Oh, okay.”

There’s a long pause, nothing but slight static on the line.

“Hermione?”

“Right. It’s just been a while since we’ve been able to talk and I thought maybe we could…chat.”

“Chat?” Ginny echoes.

“Yeah,” Hermione says, her voice a little high. “How are things?”

Ginny doesn’t bother fighting the urge to roll her eyes. For all her brilliance, Hermione is absolute crap at subterfuge. 

“Look, Hermione, you know I’m more than happy to _chat_ with you any time. But clearly something specific is on your mind. So why don’t you save us both some time and just come out with it?”

“Fine,” Hermione says, voice brusque. “It’s Harry.”

“Harry?” Ginny repeats, honestly surprised.

“I’m worried about him.”

Ginny bites her lip and stares down at the dirty words carved into the wall for a full count of three before she can trust her voice to be only mildly interested. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hermione says. “I’m not sure what’s going on. He’s just…restless. Moody. Something is clearly bothering him. I’ve tried to get him to talk, but you know how he can be.”

Yes, she does. All too well. “What does Ron think?”

“Oh, he’s just as bad. Refuses to pester him, as if talking about actual emotions is some form of assault,” she says, managing to sound both affectionate and annoyed at the same time.

Ginny is still scrambling to find a way to navigate this conversation. “Maybe Mum or Dad…?”

“Ginny,” Hermione says, voice brisk and chastising. 

Ginny closes her eyes, her hand tightening around the phone cord. “Look, Hermione, I’m sorry. I’m just not sure what this has to do with me.”

There’s another long pause that does nothing to help the unsettled feeling in her stomach.

Hermione finally seems to figure out what she wants to say, the words slow and careful. “You spent a lot of time together while he was convalescing at the Burrow. You probably have a better idea what’s going on in his head than most. Right?”

“I don’t…” Ginny starts to say, a bit at a loss for words. Does Hermione somehow know? Harry couldn’t have told her, could he? Or is this just some sort of desperate reach for anyone to talk some sense into Harry?

Either way, it’s clear that Hermione would have to be pretty worried to make this call.

“Listen,” Hermione says when Ginny’s been quiet for too long. “Ron and I are going on holiday with my parents next weekend. We’ll be gone from Friday afternoon until Monday evening.”

Hermione pauses, clearly waiting for Ginny to respond to that, but frankly, she isn’t going to touch that for anything.

“Just do with that information as you like.”

Hermione hangs up.

* * *

Ginny sits in her flat, contemplating the bizarre call from Hermione for most of the rest of the day. Is it possible Harry has been struggling that badly without her noticing?

She’s been busy, every ounce of energy going into not getting kicked off the bloody squad. But she’s also been giving Harry space. Because that’s what he asked for. Bloody time. It’s also possible she’s been a bit self-absorbed. And maybe a tiny bit stung that he so carelessly brushed aside the idea of coming to Ireland with her, of maybe not hiding this anymore.

It’s stupid though, when keeping this a secret was her idea in the first place. Right?

In the evening, she finally bows to the inevitable and pulls out her parchment.

There’s no new message from Harry, but she doesn’t really expect one. He’s been an indifferent correspondent lately. Which in and of itself should probably be telling, even without Hermione’s call. He’s always had a proclivity towards brooding, and he’s got more than enough reason these days, she supposes.

In fact, now that’s she sitting down and thinking about it, she is faced with the unavoidable truth that she hasn’t seen Harry once since she moved. Maybe that’s more than enough space. For both of them.

With a sigh, she pulls out her quill. As much as she hates to be maneuvered into anything, she knows that Hermione would never make that call unless she thought it was necessary. Ginny will just have to take the opening she’s been given and see what’s going on for herself. 

After giving it a lot of thought, and possibly writing a rough draft or two, she writes out a message, making it sound like Hermione casually mentioned she would be away in a letter, and then basically inviting herself over for the weekend. She proposes the time she could arrive in London via International Floo, and when she would have to leave. She wants to assume he will be more than happy to see her, but something makes her tack on a way for him to back out gracefully, saying that she understands if it’s too last minute, if his schedule doesn’t fit, but hopes it will work.

She peers critically down at the words for long moments before putting the parchment down. She’s written it and there’s no taking it back, so she refuses to think on it any longer. Though she does bundle up and abandon her flat rather than wait for an answer, heading down to the local pub she and Bill discovered together. 

The owner Finn is behind the bar when she gets there. He’s big and tall, not quite enough to give Hagrid a run, but near enough to make people wonder if he has some giant or troll blood in him. Useful for the rare times anyone ever gets too out of line.

“Ach, look who it is! My favorite ball o’ trouble.” He looks Ginny critically over as she drops onto a stool at the bar. “I would offer to fill your gub, but it looks to me like you’re more in need of a pint.”

“That’d be great,” Ginny says with a sigh.

“Bronagh!” he nearly roars, Ginny wincing.

An answering bellow came from the back. “I’ll be there when I’m ready, you great oaf!”

Finn gives Ginny a smile as if being insulted by his employees is perfectly normal and moves to help someone at the other end of the bar.

A woman about Ginny’s age eventually comes out from the back, with thick black hair and startlingly blue eyes. One would expect someone named Bronagh to be as sad and sorrowful as her namesake, but as Bronagh likes to cheerfully tell people, it speaks louder to her contrary nature. She’d as soon spit in her own eye as let someone tell her what to do.

Ginny likes her immensely.

She brightens when she sees Ginny. “Ginny, bout ye!”

“Honestly?” Ginny says as she slides onto a stool. “I’ve been better.”

Bronagh raises an eyebrow at that, filling a pint without another word.

There is something about being with Bronagh that always makes Ginny feel like she’s back at the Borrow. She can’t really account for it, is just grateful for it. Coming so far from everything she knows hasn’t been easy.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Ginny says.

Bronagh nods, not pressing for details, instead pulling herself a pint as well and coming around to sit next to Ginny. “Well, if you think you’ve had a day, wait ‘til you hear about mine.”

Ginny relaxes into the sound of Bronagh’s voice as she recounts tales of the idiots who wandered into the pub today. She laughs long and hard until her stomach aches and finally feels up to eating something.

When she gets back to her flat, slightly buzzed but in a much better mood, there is a short message waiting for her.

_Okay,_ is all it says. _I’ll see you Friday._

She’ll just have to go and see for herself what this is all about.

* * *

Ginny’s journey is long, but uneventful, having to submit herself to long lines and security checks both in Dublin and London. The British Ministry’s high alert in the years after Voldemort’s fall is even more obvious from the outside. In response to what some call overly paranoid requirements surrounding traveling into and out of the country, other nations have happily loaded British travelers with their own seemingly useless bureaucracy. Ginny isn’t surprised to hear that there has been a rise in illegal cross-boundary apparition points. She thinks she could make it to London on a thestral faster than through the International Floo Network.

She probably should have paid the extra money for a portkey, but Quidditch isn’t exactly the steadiest of employment. She’s carefully hoarding her earnings, never knowing when an injury or just getting cut might kill her career.

She’d really rather not have to move back to the Burrow if she doesn’t have to. 

Once she’s finally in London, she feels like a thief sneaking out of the Ministry as quickly as possible. It’s late enough that Arthur and Percy shouldn’t be around, but it really wouldn’t do to have her mum somehow find out she’s been in England without visiting. The guilt would be excruciating.

All in all, she sighs with relief when she’s finally knocking on the front door of Grimmauld Place.

Harry opens the door, and just the sight of him makes something warm and buoyant fill her, something far stronger than she’s prepared to feel. “Harry,” she says, immediately stepping forward and dragging him into a hug.

Fortunately he helps out, ducking down to meet her. “Hey,” he says, his arms going around her. 

His face presses into the side of hers, breathing deeply a moment as his arms tighten almost painfully around her before he seems to catch himself, like he’s remembering that he should probably at least let her get fully inside the house first. He pulls away from her, but she doesn’t let him go far, lifting up to press a quick kiss to his lips. 

“Now that feels weird,” she says as she drops back on her heels, fingers tugging gently at the hair on his chin.

He rubs at his face. “Guess I didn’t think about that,” he murmurs.

“Haven’t been kissing a lot of people lately?”

He frowns, and she isn’t sure if it’s the joke he doesn’t appreciate or if he just isn’t in a place to be teased.

“I don’t mind it,” she says, walking past him inside. “You’ll just have to be sure to kiss me a lot this weekend so I can get used to it.”

That gets a bit of a smile, though she still can’t help feeling a little off-kilter. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Where should I put this?” she asks, lifting her bag that had seemed quite reasonably light three hours ago when she first left her flat but now feels like a pile of lead. She drops it to the floor, wrestling her coat off as Harry closes the door behind them.

“Both of the rooms on the second floor are empty,” he says with his back still to her, sounding hesitant.

“Oh,” she says, assuming she would just stay with him. Then again, she doesn’t want to completely intrude on his space.

Before she can decide one way or the other, Kreacher steps out of the darkness, apparently ready to pounce on any chance to be useful. “Can Kreacher take your bag up?” he asks, looking far too eager for Ginny to be able to say no.

“Of course,” Ginny says. “Thank you.”

They both watch Kreacher disappear with a crack.

Harry touches her back. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved,” she admits. She hadn’t wanted to make herself any later by stopping for food.

He leads her down into the kitchen, which shows clear signs of being the locus of his and Hermione’s lives. It has a cheery, homey quality that Ginny never could have imagined it having the first time she visited here.

“There’s some soup,” Harry says, jabbing his wand at the burner under a large pot, Ginny noting the ease with which he executes the spell. Clearly that has improved. 

“You cooked?” Ginny asks.

Harry shakes his head. “Ron made it last night.”

“Okay then,” Ginny says. “It’ll be safe to eat.”

Harry ignores her dig at cooking skills, though whether that is because he knows perfectly well that he can’t cook a damn or because of something else, Ginny can’t tell.

They settle down together at the worn table with bowls of soup and crusty brown bread.

With a little prompting he talks about work, what little parts he can talk about. Meaning he mostly just complains about how boring tea-fetching and library work are. The strange quirks of his workmates. Anything more specific just gets a vague shrug from him, which she assumes means he isn’t allowed to talk about. He listens as she tells him about the drills she’s been working on to build up the strength of her off arm. It’s all rather normal except the way Harry’s eyes don’t settle, the way his smile never makes it to his eyes, the way he looks at her with something like hunger when he thinks she can’t see.

Hermione clearly wasn’t being completely paranoid.

After supper, she watches him make a potion. He’s down to one a week at this point, and soon it will be none. They eventually settle in the sitting room, her head resting on his thigh and his fingers in her hair as they listen to Lee’s evening radio show. She counts how many times he touches his ribs and then pulls his hand back away when he realizes what he’s done.

She considers that Molly should have fought harder to make him stay.

As the evening wanes, she waits for him to reach for her, to do more than perfunctorily kiss her. She waits for some sign of that hunger he’s trying not to let her see in his gaze. When they both agree it’s late, he gives her a nice hug and a simple kiss that he pulls back from when she tries to make it more.

He gives her a sheepish look. “I’m really tired,” he says. “Still not quite used to the full work days.”

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees, because he does look exhausted, despite her confusion.

In her own room up on the second floor, she lies in the dark, staring up at the foreign ceiling, jostled by the moaning silences of the unfamiliar house, trying to put all the pieces she’s been collecting together to form some sort of picture.

It’s clear that while his body may have healed, he’s still struggling with something else.

She’s just begun to finally doze off when she hears a creak on the stairs, her entire body coming alert, skin prickling and heart pounding. Probably Kreacher creeping about, she tells herself, rolling onto her side.

There’s a hesitant knock at her door, really more of a barely-audible scratch that she would have slept through had she not already been awake.

Flipping back her covers, she crosses the room and opens the door.

Harry is standing in the hall, his hair mussed and feet bare. For some reason the view of his toes peeking out from under the hem of his pajamas makes her chest ache.

“Gin,” he says, looking a little lost.

She reaches for him, pulling him inside. His mouth finds hers as they shuffle back together towards the bed. Like everything else, the way he touches her seems restrained, like maybe he still in more pain than he’s letting on. Or he’s uncertain of himself.

It’s still nice—his hands on her body, the taste of his skin on her tongue. Just…different. A little off like the foreign feel of the air in this room. They’d barely begun to learn each other before the explosion, how they fit together. Possibly she’s just misremembering.

He lets her take the lead, and she’s happy to do it. He barely makes a sound as he loses himself in her, his face buried in her neck.

For a moment she wishes for loud voices and fingers pressing just a shade too hard.

She falls asleep with his body curled around hers, only to wake up alone.

* * *

On her way downstairs the next morning, Ginny pauses outside Harry’s door. She knocks, the sound startlingly loud in the pressing quiet of the house. “Harry?”

There’s no answer, and after a long moment, she knocks again. The silence stretches on.

She opens the door, peering inside. “Harry?”

The bed is made, the covers unrumpled. Off to one side is the bike her father made for him, with a series of weights and other equipment carefully laid out on what looks like the kind of mat they used in DA meetings. A sparring dummy is wedged in one corner.

“Ginny?”

She jumps at the sound of Harry’s voice. “I was just looking for you,” she says, somehow feeling like she’s been caught spying.

Turning, she finds Harry standing in the hall behind her, a towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hand as he rubs at his still damp hair.

Ginny’s breath catches, totally unprepared to see him like this, her brain fizzling a bit as warmth flushes her body.

Harry lowers the towel in his hand to his chest in what at first looks like modesty. The urge to tease him dies in her throat when she realizes he’s really just trying to cover his scar.

She’s rarely had a chance to see him like this, in full light. It confirms what she suspected in the dark last night. He’s lost weight, his muscles standing out starkly under his skin. He just seems…sharper than she’s ever seen him before.

He gives her an awkward smile. “I’ll, uh, be down soon.”

Ginny nods. “Sure. Of course”

He steps around her and shuts the door between them. 

* * *

Over breakfast, Ginny says, “I was thinking maybe we could go to the National Gallery.”

“Yeah?” Harry says.

She nods. “Professor Burbage always talked about it.”

Harry frowns down at his toast, and she can tell he’s going to say no. But she can’t face being cooped up in this house anymore, wants desperately to get him away and out.

“It’s a Muggle museum,” she says. “No one would bother you there. We could just be two normal people.” He’s always been more comfortable in the Muggle parts of the city, and no Muggle cares if Harry Potter is with Ginny Weasley.

“Aren’t we?” he asks. “Two normal people?”

Her smiles slips. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he says, spearing a bit of egg with his fork. “I think I do.”

“Please?” Ginny says, still trying to figure out how to navigate this strange, prickly version of Harry.

“Of course,” Harry says with a wan smile. “Whatever makes you happy.”

She wonders what he would say if she told him what would make her happy is for him to stop looking at her like she’s a stranger, like having her here is anything other than an annoyance. 

He’d been happy enough to be with her last night.

When they’re ready to go, instead of heading for the front door, he leads her back upstairs and into a cloak closet. He’s finally rigged up an alternate exit, and she should be more comfortable with that than she is, considering it was her idea in the first place. It dumps them out in a dark alley a few streets away. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Harry double check the location of his wand before leading her out of the alley.

They walk to the closest tube stop, Ginny slipping her hand into his. She braces herself for him to pull away the first chance he has, but instead his fingers grip tight around hers. She doesn’t have to look to know that his other hand is in his pocket, wrapped around his wand.

At the gallery they slip into the Saturday crowds, moving from painting to painting, Ginny occasionally peering closer. She recognizes some of the artworks from Burbage’s class, such as the hazy painting of some sort of sailing ship being pulled behind another one with a blazing red sunset in the background. It’s beautiful, even more so in person than the illustrations she saw in class. Still, she finds it a little disconcerting the way the paintings are so static.

Harry dutifully follows her around the space, looking at the paintings she points out, but he seems jumpy. He keeps looking around, his attention more on the people moving around them than the paintings. She’s hopeful he just needs to settle in a bit, but after fifteen minutes he’s still tense next to her.

“We can go, if you like,” she says.

“No,” he says, focusing his attention on the painting in front of them. “It’s fine.”

As if to prove it, he points at a small painting of a man and woman holding hands in a bedroom, a great round mirror like an eye hanging between them. “I think I learned about that one back in primary.” He squints down at the label.

“Yeah?” she asks.

He never talks about that time, back before he knew he was a wizard, never more than passing jokes about the Dursleys that always leave his eyes just a little bit hard.

He turns away from the painting. “It was a long time ago.”

She doesn’t make him stay much longer, the two of them stepping back out into the crowded square. They don’t linger there, far too aware they are only a few blocks away from Whitehall and the entrance to the Ministry. Instead they wander up the opposite way toward Covent Garden.

They eat lunch in a small pub, Harry sitting in a seat with his back to the wall, eyes intent on the people around them.

By the time they finish, Ginny is feeling as overloaded by the sounds and crowds of London as by Harry’s behavior. She’s never been a city person, born and bred in the open spaces of the country.

“Is there somewhere we could go? Get outside?” She doesn’t care if it’s February.

He looks around. “We are outside.”

Ginny pulls a face. “I mean not in the city. Someplace quiet.”

He thinks a moment, a shadow seeming to cross his face. “Sure. I know a place.”

When no one is looking, they step into the lav together. Harry pulls her into his chest and turns on his heel.

It’s a forest, a stretch of trees and leaf-strewn ground as far as she can see. She breathes out. “Perfect.”

There is a faint, narrow path that wanders into the trees.

“Why don’t we walk for a while?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says.

The track is narrow enough that Ginny is forced to walk a few steps behind him. It seems almost unnaturally quiet, nothing but the crunch of leaves under their feet.

Harry sets the pace, starting out slow and measured, but gradually building to a punishing pace that has Ginny thinking about all the equipment she saw in his room. She stares at his back, watching the pull of the clothes over his shoulders as he moves.

After nearly a half hour, he abruptly stops at the top of a ridge looking over a small dell with what looks like a pond in the distance. His breath is coming out in great white puffs, and he’s staring down at the space like it’s going to jump up and attack him.

Ginny touches his arm, feeling him start at the contact. “Harry?”

He doesn’t turn to look at her, his expression distant. “This was the first place I thought of when you asked. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t have—”

Ginny steps forward, glancing down at the frigidly cold, but strangely beautiful landscape. “Where are we?”

Instead of answering, he steps away, finding a small crease in the face of the ridge, slipping between trees and over rocks until he’s down at the bottom. Ginny scrambles to follow after him, struggling to get down the steep face. But the time she catches up with him, he’s standing on the edge of the small pond, ice ringing the edges.

Ginny moves to stand in front of him, feeling for some stupid reason that he might jump in. “Harry. What is this place?”

He shakes his head, and she doesn’t think he’ll tell her, but then the words start coming out of him like ice cracking. “This was it. Where we hit the lowest point. The closest I ever came to giving up.”

Ginny feels her stomach drop, looking around the space again. “When you were hunting horcruxes?”

But Harry barely seems aware of her anymore. “There was never much food. We’d only managed to find one horcrux in that whole time, and we had no idea how to destroy it. We had to wear it around our necks, a little piece of his soul whispering and nagging and feeding our darkest feelings.”

Ginny feels her chest go cold, a whisper echoing in her mind.

“And then Ron left and I…”

“What?” Ginny says, never having heard anything about that. “Ron left?”

“He just couldn’t… It wasn’t his fault. If it was anyone’s it was mine. But he just… He _left_. He left us. And I don’t think I really understood how much he held us together until he was gone. Hermione was crying every night, and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. We could go days with barely speaking.”

God, she can’t even imagine.

“And this is where we ended up. Right after my impulsive need to see Godric’s Hollow almost got us killed. My wand was shattered. I began to realize I didn’t really know anything about Dumbledore. It was so cold all the time. It all seemed…impossible.”

His eyes find her, focusing on her face. “And I watched your dot on the map and thought I would do anything to talk to you for five minutes. To know there was something good left in this world.” That hunger is back in his expression again.

She steps closer to him, resting her hands on his chest. “You left this place, Harry. You carried on.” They wouldn’t be standing here if he hadn’t.

Covering her hands with his, he curses. “You’re freezing,” he says, the warming charms clearly having worn off or never having been a real match for the shattering cold of this place.

“I’m okay.”

He presses her hands between his, lifting them to his mouth, his breath warm on her fingers. “I’m sorry. I never wanted any of this to touch you,” he says, like telling her is some huge burden he’s put on her.

She should have known that in Harry’s mind, he will always feel the need to protect her, even from himself.

She thinks about how long he’s been holding onto this, more than two years. “I think maybe that isn’t the way this is supposed to work.”

He rests his forehead against hers, letting out a long breath.

She pulls him close, wrapping her arms around him. “Let’s go back.”

He nods.

They leave the forest to its ghosts.

* * *

Back at Grimmauld Place, they change into thick, warm pajamas and build up a roaring fire in the sitting room. They sit in front of it and toast bits of bread and drink hot chocolate, piles of pillows and blankets covering the floor. It feels childish and silly and wonderful.

Ginny stares into the flames, her cheeks now flushed pink with warmth. “We used to do this as kids. After long afternoons outside having snowball fights.” She smiles, drawing her legs up into her chest.

Harry takes his fill of looking at her--the way the light falls on her hair, the curve of her neck, all the way down to the tips of her toes lost in thick, comfortable socks. 

She’s so beautiful it’s almost painful.

He drops his eyes back to his feet, reaching for another bit of toast, wincing at a twinge in his back. He may have overdone it this morning. After waking from a nightmare that fortunately hadn’t woken Ginny, he’d gone down to his room and lifted weights until it finally faded.

“Are you in pain?”

“What?” Harry asks, his hand automatically going to his side, assuming she means his injury. “No.”

“Not that,” she says, her hand reaching for his shoulder, thumb pressing unerringly into the tight muscle at the base of his neck.

He winces.

She releases the pressure immediately, giving him a small frown. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“It’s just rehab,” he tries to brush off.

“Harry,” she says, voice chastising. “You think I don’t know a little something about body conditioning?”

He lets out a breath, knowing that even if she weren’t a professional athlete he probably wouldn’t be able to fool her for long. It’s one of the reasons he both longed to have her here and dreaded it too.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she says, voice soft, and he knows she doesn’t just mean his workout routines.

He would really rather pretend his pathetic breakdown in the Forest of Dean never happened, but also knows that is far too much to hope for. The simple fact is that he doesn’t want to tell her, doesn’t want to make it all any more real by saying it out loud, as stupid as that sounds. But Ginny patiently sits there with that look in her eyes like nothing on this earth could knock her down, like she won’t _let_ it, and he finds himself, as always, spilling out his secrets to her. Because maybe she can tell him what he’s missing. Maybe she can tell him it will be all right.

He turns to look at the fire, away from her gaze. The flames flicker and gut with the draft. “The Department of Mysteries is so strange.”

“Harry,” she says, clearly thinking this is a deflection.

“It’s almost like time and location don’t mean anything.” But that isn’t quite right. “No. It’s more like they’re…elastic. Constantly shifting.” He shakes his head. “You should hear the way Lucas talks about it, almost like its sentient, not just a set of rooms.”

“Like Hogwarts,” Ginny says.

He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe it’s the concentration of magic, or the things kept there. I have no idea.”

Next to him, he sees Ginny shiver and pull her sweater tighter across her chest, like she suspects very well what might be down there.

“The thing is,” he says, “ever since I went back, I keep finding myself in the room with the archway. The veil.” He glances at her to make sure she remembers what he’s talking about. She’s pale, and of course she wouldn’t forget. “I never set out to go there, I just turn a corner and it’s there instead of the room I’m aiming for.”

Ginny is very still, nothing but her breathing making her shoulders lift slightly.

He licks his lips and presses on. “I try to avoid it. I try to ignore it and do other things. But occasionally I just…sit there. I don’t know how long, even how often.” The flames in the fireplace remind him of it, the way the veil moves, as if touched by a breeze that doesn’t exist. “It’s such a delicate thing. Like it would take absolutely nothing to pass beyond it.”

He has no idea why he’s talking about it this way, when all he wants to do is shout and yell when he’s there.

“Do you regret it?” Ginny asks.

Harry turns to look at her, the light flickering across her face as she stares into the fireplace. “What?”

Her lips part, her attention not turning from the fire. “Surviving?”

Harry feels a jolt of something deep down in his stomach. Horror, maybe, but he isn’t completely sure. He stares at Ginny and wonders how she can be so matter-of-fact about what she seems to be suggesting.

Only then her eyes lift to him, and he sees it, how frightened she is, even as she ruthlessly refuses to step away from the hard truth in front of her.

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. “ _No_.”

Her shoulders relax.

“But I also don’t understand why. I don’t understand why I survived. Why so many other people… It always seems like I’m surviving while other people die.”

“Harry,” she says, leaning towards him. He forces himself to hold her gaze. “You can’t feel guilty for _existing_.” 

“Can’t I?”

She’s regarding him with that intense gaze that he likes so much. “Is that why you’re pushing your body so hard? Is this punishment?”

He closes his eyes.

“Or are you just convinced it’s going to happen again?”

Scared that maybe next time it will be her.

They sit, neither of them speaking. Harry has no idea what she’s thinking.

After a while, she stands, and Harry panics a little.

“I have something that might help,” she says. “With your back.” Leaning over, she presses a kiss to the top of his head, and he has to fight the urge to grab her and make her _stay_.

She isn’t gone long, barely enough for Harry to put a few more pieces of wood on the fire. When she gets back, she has a small jar in her hand. “This is pretty much a trade secret, so count yourself lucky.”

He reaches for it, but she pulls it back. “Off with your shirt.”

“Gin,” he says.

“Come now, no being bashful. Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Her tone is light, but her eyes knowing.

Not feeling up to fighting her, he turns his back on her, tugging his shirt up and over his head.

“Lie down.”

She settles next to him on the floor, arranging blankets and pillows around them, making sure he’s comfortable. Then she is pushing her sleeves up and spreading a thin layer of the salve between her palms. She slides her hands across his shoulders. 

For a moment it burns sharp and bright, only to quickly settle deeper in his muscles, warmth loosening the tension as she presses harder.

He groans, not realizing until now just how much discomfort he’s been in. “God, that’s amazing.”

Ginny makes a hum of agreement. “It’s only temporary. The only real solution is moderation.”

He smiles at her tone. “Well, if it means having you do this for me more often…”

Her fingers pinch at a ticklish spot.

“Okay, okay,” Harry says, squirming away from her hand. “Moderation.”

They fall quiet, Ginny gradually working her way down each of his arms and even along his fingers, her thumbs pressing into his palm. He never would have said his hands hurt, but the release of tension is unbelievable.

He watches her fingers slide and press into his, her skin warm and slick. “You use this at work?”

She nods. “Part of the regimen. It reduces injury and shortens recovery time.”

“Meaning…someone does this for you?”

Letting go of his hand, she slides a leg over him so she’s sitting across the back of his thighs. Her hands skim up his spine to his shoulders, the weight of her body pressing along the length of his.

“Well,” she says, her lips brushing his skin, “not quite like this.”

“I should hope not,” he says, voice a bit rough as he feels the familiar tightening in his stomach at having her so near. He reaches for her thigh, just wanting to touch her. 

She sits back up, pushing his hand away. “No distracting me. I haven’t finished.”

He smiles, dutifully dropping his hand. “You’re the boss.”

She laughs, rewarding him with a lingering kiss to his neck before she returns her hands to his shoulders. She slowly works her way down his back, thumbs digging in along his spine, working at the knots in his muscles. After a while he isn’t sure if it’s the cream or her hands that feel better, he just knows his body is relaxing in a way he’s rarely felt.

Between the heat of the fire and the feel of her hands and the lack of sleep the night before, he starts to drift off.

Only then her fingers move even lower, running along the waistband of his trousers, following the line of cloth over his sides. He feels it, the moment her fingers make contact with the edge of his scar on his hip, and he can’t help tensing. Her hand stills for a moment, but then she’s pulling, urging him to flip over to his back. He hesitates, but eventually complies.

His hands twitch to cover the scar, but he makes himself lie still under her scrutiny. The firelight falls across his torso, not softening any of the details. The scarring has faded, now a low web of pale lines radiating from a dark starburst of black—the mark of a dark curse, one that will never fade—joining all the others.

Sometimes he thinks he can feel the curse working and writhing inside him, as if it would still very much like a chance to kill him, even though he knows he must be imagining it.

Right now he is more interested in Ginny, in the way she is staring down at him like she’s studying each line. Eventually she reaches out to slide her fingers across the rough skin, tracing the lines to the center of the black scar and then back out, down over his waist.

She meets his gaze, and there is no pity or horror or fear there. She leans down, touching her lips to his skin, mapping with her tongue, her hair splaying across his stomach. She tugs the waistband of his trousers down, her lips dragging across his hipbone and his body screams awake, a rush of goosebumps rising over his skin as that low hum of warmth becomes something much more insistent.

“Ginny,” he says, voice hoarse.

She shifts her weight, one leg sliding across his body. She hovers over him, the fabric of her sweater brushing against his sensitized skin as she reaches up to brush his hair back from his forehead, fingers and then mouth tracing the first and most inescapable of his scars.

“You’re beautiful, Harry,” she says, voice near his ear.

If he is, he thinks, it’s only when he’s with her, just another one of the inexplicable ways she makes him…different. 

He touches her face, feeling her lean into his palm, and he wants to say so many things, his fingers trailing down her neck towards the flush he can see is working up her chest. All he manages is her name and then he’s pulling her down and kissing her. And, God, even the soft touch of her lips is enough to push everything over the edge. He winds his hand into her hair, the kiss deepening, growing almost frantic like they are both done with tiptoeing around each other—done with this strange distance that’s widened in the weeks they’ve been apart, with the things he’s kept from her.

Sliding his hands up the back of her sweater, he drags it up and over her head. She immediately presses back down against him, like she needs the contact just as much as he does. Her mouth finds his, warm and slick and so _alive_ , his fingers digging into her sides in response.

He rolls her to her back, pausing just long enough to take in the way the firelight limns her body in orange. He can’t help gently trailing his hand down over her body, the muscles in her stomach contracting in response.

She opens her eyes, lips parted and breathing heavy as she watches him look at her.

Ducking his head, he lowers his mouth to her shoulder, slowly working his way towards her neck like he might somehow be able to give her all the attention she’s already given him, wanting her to feel even half as _seen_ , as important. His tongue dips into the hollow above her collarbone, her breathing hitching. He takes his time chasing the shadows, lingering in the edges of light, tasting each curve and plane until she’s nearly panting, hands digging into the blankets underneath as he helps her shimmy free of the last of her clothes.

Reaching her hip, he slides his hand the full length of her leg, feeling her entire body shudder under the simple touch. He turns his face into her knee, settles her leg over his shoulder, and slowly kisses his way down the smooth skin of her inner thigh.

“Harry,” she says, half-urgent, half-dazed.

He takes a first tentative taste of her, Ginny gasping as her fingers curl in his hair--not pulling him away, but rather tightening like she’s trying to resist pushing him closer. He has no idea what he’s doing, but there’s no room for worrying about that, for anything other than her, than pressing forward. He lets her reactions guide him, the way she shifts against him, the sounds pouring from her mouth that nearly undo him then and there. 

He feels her come up off the ground, Ginny cursing loudly as her entire body seems to contract and tense. Her hand pushes him away as she finally relaxes, sucking in shaky breaths. She opens her eyes, looking down at him where he rests his head against her thigh.

She opens her mouth like she might say something, but instead reaches for him, dragging him back up against her. He hesitates, but she kisses him deeply, the two of them falling back to the blankets, and his brain fries a bit at the errant thought that she can taste herself on his tongue. _Fuck, god, fuck_ , he thinks, an endless litany of nonsense cluttering his head. He shoves a hand under her back, pressing their bodies together, and he wants her with such ferocity that he can barely think for the hard ache.

He tries to take a breath, to keep control, to at least loosen the hold he has on her that must be hard enough to hurt, but he can’t seem to manage it. Ginny’s fingers scrape his hips as she pushes his trousers down, and fuck, that is too much.

He grabs her hand, stopping her as he squeezes his eyes shut, his breathing ragged.

“Harry?” she asks.

He shakes his head, feeling like everything he’s bottled up these last endless months is threatening to burst out all at once. Like the way it always seems to be, him holding everything back as long as he possibly can until it pours out, more often than not as anger. And Ginny, god, Ginny. She’s usually the one to bear the brunt of it.

Sometimes she feels like the one pure, good thing in his life. Not that she herself is some perfect, pure being, but rather his feelings for her are the simplest thing he knows. And he doesn’t want any of this to touch that, to ruin it.

_I don’t think that’s the way this is supposed to work._

“Harry,” she says again, and he forces himself to look at her.

She’s watching his face closely, breathing still uneven, face flushed. “You aren’t going to hurt me,” she says, like she can somehow read his bloody thoughts. “Stop holding back.”

It’s the urge he’s been fighting since the moment she walked in the door;, to just grab her and lose himself completely in her. To believe something so simple could be enough to fix everything, to make it all just…stop. He feels it all crumble in that look she is giving him.

He presses forward and kisses her exactly the way he wants to--hard and relentless, fingers digging into her hips, for once letting himself stop thinking and protecting and trying to do the right thing. It’s rough and raw and far more uncontrolled than he’s ever allowed himself to be before, and Ginny doesn’t hesitate to meet him for every moment, every movement, just urging _more, harder_. He feels it all roaring towards him, and there’s nothing cautious or safe about the pleasure that seems to tear out of his body. For a moment, it feels like the entire world is shifting, like he’s falling through space, and Ginny is the only thing holding him in place.

She wraps herself around him, holding him tight, and for a moment nothing else matters.

* * *

Ginny has no idea what time it is, or even where she is, when Harry lets out a hoarse shout. It takes her a moment to register the tangle of blankets between them, the fire burned so low that she can barely see him in the dark. They hadn’t moved, she remembers, the two of them just curling up and drifting off to sleep right here in front of the fire.

Harry makes another noise, something broken and distressed. His head is pressed back against his pillow, body twitching slightly at some unseen menace. A nightmare, then.

She says his name, but he only tosses his head to one side, mumbling something under his breath.

“No!” he shouts, upper body lifting and eyes flying open.

He’s awake now, finally, but there’s a moment where he is staring up at her and clearly not seeing her.

“Harry,” she says, hating the way her voice trembles, but he’s scaring her. She touches his face, wanting him to _see_ her.

He violently flinches back, but then he’s blinking, that terrible blankness seeming to drop away. “Fuck. Ginny.”

“Yeah,” she says.

He sits up, so suddenly that they almost knock heads, and then his hands are on her face, one patting her shoulder, down her side as the other pulls the blanket away from her, the air uncomfortably cool against her skin. He looks at her, and it isn’t like earlier, nothing warm or tantalizing but rather a sort of clinical desperation.

“Harry,” she says, catching his fingers as they touch her hip.

He seems to realize what he’s doing, pulling the blanket back up over her. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, falling back to the pillows and squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” she says.

She touches his shoulder, but doesn’t get any closer, giving him a moment to collect himself. To decide if he’s actually going to tell her about the dream. He eventually covers her hand with his.

“You should go up to bed,” he says.

Her fingers tighten around his, refusing to let him push her away, to surrender a single inch they’ve worked so hard to gain. “Only if you come with me.”

He opens his eyes, looking up at her. He seems to struggle a moment, and she wonders if this is what kept him from her room last night, not wanting to wake her. Or maybe just not wanting her to see. She isn’t sure what to think of it, that he is still being chased by nightmares after all this time.

She holds his gaze, making it clear that she isn’t going anywhere without him, and eventually he nods. “Okay,” he says in a rush, like he can’t stop himself even if he thinks he should.

Getting to her feet, she wraps a blanket around herself and leads him upstairs. They climb into his bed together, and pull the drapes shut. 

Ginny wakes the next morning to find Harry still sound asleep next to her, and that, yet again, is another big improvement. Stretching leisurely, she realizes she is sore in places she never knew she could be.

She really, really likes it.

“What are you smiling about?” Harry’s sleepy voice asks.

She turns over, looking across the pillow at him. “Just thinking about cooking you breakfast.”

His eyebrows lift in clear alarm. “You know, I’ve quite spend as much time in hospital as I’d like, if it’s all the same to you.”

She gives him an imperious glare, casually sitting up so the covers pool at her waist. “I think you’re going to want to apologize to me for that vicious slander.” 

She’s rather pleased to see that Harry’s attention immediately wanders south of her face. He nods vigorously. “Yes. I apologize. I’m an unmitigated prat.”

He reaches for her, but she pulls out of reach, flipping the drapes open and slipping out of bed with a laugh. This, of course only gives him an even better view. But rather than a satisfyingly lascivious leer, all she gets from Harry is a rather unflattering frown, his mood seeming to sober immediately.

“What?” she asks.

He climbs onto the edge of the bed, sitting in front of her as his fingers gently brush across the faint bruises setting in on her hip. Not from a bludger, but rather a set of fingers gripping tightly. 

“Gin,” he says, voice full of horror.

“Don’t,” she says, hating the way he’s looking at her. “I liked it, okay?”

“What?” he asks, attention still riveted to the marks.

Reaching for a blanket from the bed, she wraps it around herself. “I would have said something if I didn’t, remember?” It’s what they promised to do.

He looks up at her, hands falling to his sides, and she can see that he’s having a hard time believing that right now, like she can almost hear himself internally berating himself. The last thing on Earth she wants is to go back to that distant, hesitant Harry from her first night here.

She steps closer, fingers brushing along his shoulder, and only partly so she won’t have to look him square in the eye as she admits the truth. “I liked it. A lot. That I could make you be like that, that you could…want me that much.”

He makes a small noise, wrapping an arm firmly around her waist and pulling her close. “Ginny.”

“I really don’t want to be treated like some fragile thing you’re afraid of breaking, okay?”

He nods against her stomach. “Okay.”

“Then I guess maybe I won’t hex you, just this once.”

He looks up at her, a smile tugging at his lips, and that is much, much better. “Lucky me,” he says. 

She jabs a finger into his chest. “Don’t you forget it.”

Pushing to his feet, he pulls her into a tight hug. “Not a chance,” he says, his head resting against the top of hers.

She closes her eyes, letting herself enjoy the moment of closeness.

“Harry?” she says after a while.

“Yeah?” 

“If you think fannying about pantsless is going to get you out of eating my breakfast…” she says.

He looks down, seeming to belatedly realize his current state of dress. “Worth a try, I suppose,” he says, grinning at her even as his face tinges red.

She presses a quick kiss to his lips before retreating to find her own clothes, still abandoned in the sitting room downstairs. 

Once properly dressed, Ginny sets to work in the kitchen. She doesn’t cook much beyond the basics. But she has one omelette recipe she swears by. She’s pretty much been living on them the last month after all.

Kreacher hovers nearby until Harry arrives and asks him to go somewhere else.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Ginny says as she pours in the egg, swirling it around the pan.

“Uh oh,” Harry says from his seat at the table where he sips tea.

She ignores that. “About the veil. Why you keep ending up there.”

As she knew it would, any humor leaves his face.

“What is it about the explosion that really bothers you?”

“I wonder if I should have been able to stop it.” His eyes shift, and she knows he’s lying.

The evasion at least lets her know that she’s possibly working with a flawed set of assumptions. “When you dream,” she asks, “what do you dream about?”

She can see him considering his answer, and that in itself is alarming enough. Yet more proof that there is a lot he is holding back. How many times has he written her these last few weeks and said everything at work was fine? Boring even. And the whole time, he was being haunted by that fucking room.

“Usually Hogwarts. The battle,” Harry eventually admits, like the detail is somehow telling. 

She frowns, not expecting that. It’s been nearly two years. Why would that be bothering him now? “Not the explosion.”

“No.”

There’s clearly more, but she isn’t going to be able to force anything out of him, even if she wanted to try. But what happened in the forest yesterday, added to him still thinking about the castle rather than Diagon Alley, is telling enough on its own.

She tilts her head to the side. “Is that why you took the internship at the DoM in the first place? Because part of you was hoping to find something there? Some answer?”

“I don’t know,” he says. 

“Either way, you haven’t.”

He shrugs. “I guess not.”

She turns back to the cooktop, sprinkling the cheese on before carefully folding the omelette in half and moving to the next. “Have you considered that you might not be looking in the right place?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, and she can hear the wariness in his voice.

“The Ministry cares more about the right truth than the whole truth. Haven’t you always said that?”

He sets his mug down. “Where else would I look?”

She sighs, turning to look at him. “Harry, there’s a huge world out there. The Ministry is just one version of reality.”

“The legal one,” he says, arms crossing mulishly over his chest.

For someone who has never cared about rules, he has always been really rigid about the line between right and wrong.

“We both know it’s not that simple,” she says, refusing to let him get away with trying to pull that one on her. They’ve had this conversation far too many times over the years. 

_Everything always looks different from the other side._

He blows out a breath. “I know,” he concedes. “I just don’t want to…become him.”

“Harry,” Ginny says, taking a step towards him, her hand tightening about the spatula. “You could _never_ be like him.”

Something seems to spark in his eye, and Ginny is so happy to see a bit of fight in him, some _life_ , she could cry. “How can you be so sure? You don’t think all of this started with him asking a question and not caring where the answers came from?”

“This isn’t anything like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

She has to concede the point. “Even if it was, you have two important things Tom never did.”

“Which are?”

“A conscience, for a start.”

Harry shakes his head, clearly not sure that is enough. He’s probably seen far too many people talk themselves around their consciences.

“The other?” he asks.

“A heart.”

He looks down at his hands, clearly discomfited.

Ginny presses on. “You care about people, Harry. And because of that, you have people who will always be there to tell you when you’re taking something too far.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, jaw tight as he continues to stare down at his hands.

“Do you trust them to do that?” She bites her lip. “Do you trust _me_ to do that?”

She bets there was a time he never could have imagined having a Slytherin serve as his moral compass.

He considers her, and then he’s up and striding across the kitchen, pulling her up tight against him. He kisses her, deeply and with an intensity that makes her feel a little dizzy.

“Ginny,” he says, his voice seeming to slide down her spine, just the way he says her name.

“Yeah?” she asks, a bit dazed.

“You’re burning our breakfast.”

“Oh, bugger,” she says, turning back to the smoldering cooktop.

Harry laughs.

After breakfast— _slightly_ charred, but still edible, or so Harry insisted as he winced his way around another mouthful—they take a shower together, which proves to be a waste of water but an otherwise quite illuminating experience.

Back in Harry’s room, Ginny casts a drying charm on her hair, trying to wrestle it into compliance as Harry watches on with interest. “How’s your disillusionment charm?”

He gives her a suspicious look. “What exactly are you planning?”

“A broom ride.”

“Wouldn’t that be like work?” 

She laughs. “You’d think so, but I never get tired of being on a broom.” She gets to her feet, glancing at the clock. “We should have just enough time.”

He grabs her as she walks past him, pulling her back against his chest. “Stay one more night.”

“Harry…”

He wraps his arms around her, pressing his face into her neck. “I’ll buy you a portkey. For first thing in the morning. More than early enough to get you to practice on time.”

She closes her eyes, so tempted despite her long-held promise to not let him blow his money on her like that.

“Please,” he says.

Taking a moment to consider her options, she eventually turns in his arms. “Only if you do me a favor in return.”

“Name it.”

She steps out of his arms, crossing over to rifle through her things. Coming out with a bit of parchment, she writes a name and address on it.

She hands it to Harry.

He visibly balks at the address, but recovers quickly enough. “What’s this?”

“I think she may be able to help you answer some of those questions you have.”

“Ginny,” he says, clearly not keen on talking about this with anyone, let alone someone he doesn’t know.

She puts her hands on his chest. “It’s worth a try. Just tell her I sent you. And try not to let her intimidate you.”

Now he’s looking like he’s not sure if he should be affronted.

“Deal?” she says, tilting her head to one side in challenge even as she steps closer, letting her body press against his, hoping to make the offer too enticing to refuse.

He eyes her like he is perfectly aware of what she’s doing, but his hands are also tightening on her waist. “Deal,” he agrees, like he knows he’s somehow going to come to regret it. He drops the address on the dresser behind him carelessly as he leans forward to kiss her.

They spend an afternoon in a clearing outside of London, daring each other to more and more daredevil maneuvers until they are both so exhausted they risk falling off their brooms.

After dinner they curl up in an armchair together

“This was…really nice,” Harry says, his fingers trailing down her back.

“Yeah,” Ginny says. “Almost like…” She nearly says, _like being a real couple_ , but forces herself to swallow it back.

If Harry notices the unfinished sentence, he doesn’t push.

Instead he pulls her down and kisses her, and Ginny lets herself be distracted.

It’s enough.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry pulls his cloak tighter against the cold, glancing warily around at his surroundings.

Knockturn Alley seems to be one of the only places not visibly changed by the war. Once, he probably would have said that was because it has always been dark and dank and dirty. He forces himself to be slightly more charitable, and with open eyes, realizes that despite what it looked like to a young, lost boy, the only difference from Diagon Alley has more to do with age and space than evil.

Still, he doesn’t exactly relish being caught out down here, having to explain to nosey reporters what he’s doing or giving them fodder for yet another ridiculous story about him.

Ducking off the main alley, he finally locates the address he’s looking for. The shop has dark peeling paint, but the windows are clear of any dust or muck, revealing a dim interior lined with bookshelves. Glancing inside, it looks rather empty of patrons, which Harry counts as a plus.

Harry pushes the front door open. It doesn’t let off a welcoming tinkle, instead groaning softly on ancient hinges. As he crosses the threshold, he feels the slight press of a subtle ward, something like a stretchy fabric across the front of his body that envelops and fades almost immediately. Proximity alert, he identifies.

“May I help you?” a woman’s voice asks as she appears from between bookshelves. Upon seeing him, she comes to a stop, her face betraying surprise before settling into what might be suspicion.

She’s wearing deep purple robes, her long black hair pulled away from her face. Harry feels a vague memory of her from Hogwarts tickle the back of his brain.

“Antonia?” he asks.

“Yes?” she asks, voice brisk.

Harry clears his throat, taking a few more steps into the space, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she says as if to assume otherwise would mean she’s an idiot.

“Oh,” he says, feeling foolish. “Right.”

They continue to stand and stare at each other in the silence of the shop, Harry finding himself at a loss about what to do now that he’s actually here.

“Did you need something? Or are you just lost?” She’s radiating impatience, her hands on her hips.

“No. I mean, yes. I’m not lost. I was hoping you could—I mean, I wasn’t sure—” He breaks off, helplessly glancing around at the stacks of books around them.

Antonia stares at him with wide eyes as he stutters along. “How in the world did you ever defeat the Dark Lord?”

Harry blows out a breath. “Some days I wonder myself.”

Her eyebrow pops up at that.

He just has to laugh at himself now. “She told me not to let you intimidate me. Clearly I am not doing a great job of it.”

“Who?” she asks, brow furrowing.

“Didn’t I say? Ginny sent me. She said you might be able to help me with something.”

It’s not that her entire demeanor changes or anything, but she does seem to be looking at him a little more closely, like she’s working something out. After another long moment, she gestures towards the back of the shop. “Why don’t we sit down and see if you can actually get enough words out to explain what it is you’re looking for?”

Harry dutifully follows after her in a small back room, taking the time while she makes tea to pull himself together. It’s not like he has a clear reason for coming here other than promising Ginny he would. She seems to think there’s some answer he’s struggling to find, and it was easier to let her think that than confess to the thoughts spiraling in his head these days. To admit his fear that he will never recover enough to be of real use again to anyone.

_Why do I keep surviving while other people die?_

At this point, he’s even read the books provided by Goldhorn. Trying to prove, maybe, that he doesn’t need to be here asking for anything. But all of the books were exactly what he expected—full of dry, distant observations on the nature of death, clinical descriptions of the archway and its possible uses. None written by anyone with real understanding of the subject.

“Well?” Antonia asks, now seated across from him, a spoon slowly stirring itself in her tea.

“Do you know the story of the Three Brothers?” he finds himself asking.

He has no intention of directly asking about the Deathly Hallows, but doesn’t really know where else to start, because asking for books about death seems a sure way to provoke questions he doesn’t really care to answer.

“The children’s tale?” she asks.

He nods.

She takes a sip of her drink. “I grew up hearing it as much as anyone, I suppose.”

“But…it’s more than just a story,” he says.

“Most stories are.” She sits back, regarding him, and he does his best not to squirm under her scrutiny. “There are actually some extant early versions where it was two brothers and a sister.”

“Are there?” Harry asks, more relieved to have the conversation actually go somewhere than being really interested.

“Yes. The third sibling. The one who asks for the cloak.”

“Okay,” he says, stopping his hand from moving to the magically enlarged pocket currently holding the cloak in question.

“It’s a parable, after all, isn’t it? The eldest brother who thirsts for power. The second brother who yearns to control. And the third, who only hopes for peace.” She lifts her cup, speaking into the rim. “The first two have always been the greatest foibles of man.”

“And woman as well,” Harry points out, thinking of Bellatrix and Umbridge.

Antonia shrugs. “When they are allowed it.”

Harry feels like they’ve gotten a bit off topic, but doesn’t dare point that out.

“Women have always benefited from the ability to hide,” she says. “The cloak is a fitting metaphor.”

Harry frowns. The women in his life have always been far more likely to fight than hide.

Antonia smiles as if she can guess his thoughts. “Women have not always been afforded the right to fight.”

Harry doesn’t feel like he’s really in a place to debate that. “And someone who held all three?” he asks, trying to push the conversation along.

“The Master of Death?” she asks, voice wry, like she’s heard of the Deathly Hallows but doesn’t put much stock in it.

“Yes,” Harry says, trying to sound casual.

“No one can master death,” she says. “And those who try inevitably become their own destruction. Isn’t that what this war taught us?”

“Death Eaters,” he says.

She shrugs. “Even if it was possible, I would wonder what the ultimate cost would be. To cheat death.”

She studies his face in a way that makes him feel like she can look into his thoughts. Her eyes inevitably find his scar, her expression hard to read. To judge from what Hermione has said, most people seem to assume there was some sort of trick or foul play that led to Harry surviving the killing curse twice. Antonia doesn’t seem the sort to be swayed by public opinion.

Just when Harry is ready to say absolutely anything to make her look away, her eyes dart to the wall behind him, almost too quickly to notice.

He turns, and along the back wall are a series of framed illustrations and text, like pages taken from books. He squints, but most of the text remains unreadable, clearly a language Harry doesn’t know.

Getting up, he looks closer, eye caught by one of the dozens of illustrations. It’s a careful pen drawing that has faded to brown, nearly the color of the vellum it’s drawn on. It depicts a cylindrical-shaped object with a small peaked top on it, like a cone. Small hatch marks give the object three-dimensional mass, closer cross-hatched lines marking dark squares that appear to be open windows. It rotates slowly in hitching movements, like an ancient charm wearing off, showing it from all sides, windows occasionally brightening as if lit from within. There is a single line of text in spindly writing he can’t read.

“What’s this?” Harry asks.

“You don’t know?”

“Should I?” Harry asks, wondering if he’s imagining that it feels vaguely familiar.

“I would think so,” Antonia says, voice a bit odd. “Considering one did its level best to kill you not so long ago.”

“What?” he asks, his body feeling chilled as he spins to look at her.

She seems genuinely surprised. “You really didn’t know?”

Harry turns back to the illustration, leaning in closer. For a moment, he can almost hear the hum and crack of lightning, the burnt smell of ozone.

“By all rights,” Antonia says, voice slow and thoughtful, “that curse should have killed you.”

Harry looks over at her, and now her eyes are shrewd, like she’s really looking at him for the first time.

Coming here may have been a very bad idea. But it’s done now; he’s fulfilled his promise to Ginny.

He straightens, deliberately walking away from the picture. “I’d like to read it. One of those earlier versions of the Three Brothers you were talking about. With the sister.”

If she is jarred by the sudden change in topic, she doesn’t show it. “They are very rare.”

“You don’t have one here?”

“No. But I can try to track one down for you. It would be a challenge, and would take a while.”

He nods. Honestly, at this point, he just wants to get out of here. At the very least, he can give the book to Hermione as a gift. She might find it interesting.

Antonia eyes him, something a bit predatory in her expression. “I would expect to be paid for my time and efforts, no matter the results.”

“Oh. Of course,” Harry says.

“Well then,” she says, getting to her feet and pulling a sheet of parchment out of a nearby cabinet. “This is my standard contract. If travel is involved there are additional fees. It’s all detailed on the form.”

Harry nods. “Do you have a quill?”

She gives him a look that makes him feel about an inch tall. “Feel free to look it over and send it back by owl with your signature. Contracts should never be undertaken lightly.”

He feels stupidly stung, but can’t really say she doesn’t have a point.

“Will there be anything else?” she asks.

“No,” Harry says, rolling the parchment up and slipping it inside his cloak.

She nods, gesturing for him to precede her out of the room.

As they pass through a short hallway on their way back into the main part of the store, Harry pauses.

“Mr. Potter?” she asks.

He turns his head, staring directly at what looks like nothing more than a plain stretch of wall, a calm, empty landscape painting hanging on it, seagulls bobbing serenely on the low waves. He lifts his hand, dragging a finger down the wood paneling.

“And what’s this?” he asks, feeling the subtle tingle on his skin.

“The painting?” she asks. “Do you like it?”

“Not the painting,” Harry says, no longer willing to be on his back foot. He turns to look at her. “The hidden space behind it.”

Her eyes widen, just the tiniest fraction. Harry would have missed it entirely if he weren’t watching her so closely, if he hadn’t long since learned to look very closely when he’s dealing with a Slytherin.

“It’s an interesting ward,” he says, his fingers rubbing together. “Not quite like the one on the entrance.”

She’s recovered from her shock, face falling into neutral lines, like Ginny at her iciest. Harry feels like he’s gone from an amusing opportunity to a threat in the blink of an eye.

“A slightly more unorthodox collection of books, perhaps?” he presses.

Her eyebrow lifts. “And if there were? That would concern you how?”

Harry doesn’t have an answer for that. “I suppose it wouldn’t. So long as nothing in there is going to harm anyone.”

Antonia’s expression goes haughty once more. “Anything can be used for evil, Mr. Potter. That doesn’t make the knowledge itself evil.”

“I’m sure the Ministry would disagree.”

“I’m sure they would,” she says, as good as admitting that whatever is in there is not legal. Her head tilts to the side. “Is that why you’re really here, then? For the Ministry?”

He gets the sense that she is collecting information now. Weighing her options. Calculating the chances that a Ministry raid is going to follow his visit.

“No,” he says.

But they both know that would be his answer either way.

“Ginny sent me,” he reminds her. He’s here because of who he wants to be for her. Because she deserves someone better than a crumbling coward sitting and staring into a veil he isn’t entirely sure he knows how to feel about. He’s here because he would probably do anything she asked of him.

He may not trust this woman. But he trusts Ginny.

“I’m here because of her,” he says.

After another long moment of considering him, Antonia eventually nods. He supposes she trusts Ginny enough to accept that as well.

“I’ll send the contract back as soon as I’ve looked it over.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Potter.”

He leaves.

As much as he tries to dismiss the entire visit from his mind, it lingers. Not Antonia and her hidden books, or even the idea of a Peverell sister. All he can see is that bloody little framed illustration. The thing that tried to kill him.

He must have read about it in one of the reports, maybe seen a picture there. Right? That would explain this nagging feeling of familiarity.

It bothers him though, and that night after spending hours restlessly tossing and turning, he gets up and pulls out the reports Kingsley sent him right after the attack. He reads through them again, and then a second time, lingering over the details.

There’s no picture of the device, no mention of it at all. It’s possible these are redacted reports, or that there was something mentioned in the _Prophet_ he missed while he was refusing to look at it.

Lying back in bed, he closes his eyes, forcing himself to remember whatever he can about the attack. He racks his brain for any stray detail, imagining the street again--the quality of the light, the families on the street, Luna’s voice, Rowle’s dirty, manic face.

It’s all a giant tangle in his head, so sometime near dawn he digs around in the drawer on the bedside table, pulling out a small empty journal Hermione bought him last year, saying he might like to write about their time in Australia. He hadn’t.

He writes down everything he remembers, every fleeting thought or impression. Then he highlights and copies everything from the reports, anything having to do with the actual curse. Writing it all seems to clarify it in his mind, make it all clearer, even if only to realize how many gaps there are. Lastly, he makes a wonky little sketch of the object from the illustration he saw in Antonia’s shop.

 _Have I seen this before?_ he writes under the shoddy drawing. _Where?_

In the Veil Room the next morning, he takes a nap, knowing people have long since given up on him doing anything constructive. After he wakes, he carefully changes his appearance with a few well-placed charms before flipping the invisibility cloak over his head and walking out of the Ministry. Once clear, he pulls the cloak off and heads for the _Prophet_ offices in Diagon Alley. It’s a bit like walking into Aragog’s cave and hoping not to be eaten, but fortunately none of the hungry reporters seem to recognize him though the disguise.

Down in the archives, he spends the rest of the day digging through enormous indexes to make a list of all articles relevant to the explosion. He only sees a harried-looking archivists once, his only other companion a House Elf, who retrieves and duplicates all the articles from his list. Harry then creates a second list of articles about Thorfinn Rowle. It takes the entire afternoon just to collect the copies, Harry finally leaving when his disguise starts to fade.

He feels antsy through dinner with Ron and Hermione. He’s still exhausted despite the short nap this morning, so after a quick chat with a similarly exhausted Ginny, he quickly falls asleep.

He goes into work the next day like usual, for the first time actually relieved to have the Veil Room to retreat to. Sitting on one of the stone benches, he reads through the _Prophet_ articles one by one, taking notes in his notebook.

By the time he’s read through all of them, he still hasn’t found any mention of a device at all, the curse always just referred to as ancient Dark Magic.

Clearly he needs more information, and he has some ideas where to look next.

At the end of the day, he loiters near the Auror training rooms on the second floor. Aurors-in-training in their distinctive uniforms eventually start filing out, an exhausted Seamus and Parvati giving him surprised and curious looks.

“Alright, mate?” Seamus calls.

“Yeah,” Harry says, waving them on. “Just looking for Neville.”

Seamus laughs. “Still scraping himself up off the floor,” he says with a jerk of a thumb back over his shoulder.

When Neville does eventually appear, he’s with Rosier, the two apparently having been paired up as partners. Harry eyes Ginny’s former Quidditch teammate warily, not exactly keen to have this conversation in front of a person he doesn’t know all that well.

“Neville,” Harry says.

“Harry,” he says, clearly surprised. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Harry says. “Just like new.”

Neville nods.

Rosier is watching on with a disinterested expression that Harry doesn’t buy for a second. They meet each other’s gazes, nodding in bare acknowledgement.

“Do you have a minute?” Harry asks Neville, making it abundantly clear that Rosier isn’t included in the request.

Whatever reaction Rosier may have to that is carefully hidden as he slaps Neville on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, if you can get out of bed.”

Neville groans. “See you.”

Once Rosier is gone, Harry jerks his head towards an out of the way corner, Neville following after him. “I was hoping you might be able to look into something for me.”

Neville seems to straighten, his exhaustion disappearing. “Of course. Has something happened?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. I’ve just been reading about…the attack.”

“Oh,” Neville says, both looking uncomfortable and unsurprised. “Yeah.”

“Kingsley sent me a bunch of reports about it, but it feels like something’s missing. Like maybe I got an edited version. Do you have access to case files?”

“If the case is closed, yes. We study them for precedent and such. But I’m not allowed to share them.”

Harry nods, expecting as much. He’s not exactly keen to ask Neville to get in trouble for him, but he also needs this.

“If you asked Robards or Kingsley, I’m sure they’d—”

“I’d rather not involve them,” Harry says.

Neville’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t ask. “Well, I suppose there’d be no harm in me at least looking, if there is something in particular you’re interested in.”

Harry’s shoulders drop, feeling flooded with relief. “I’m most interested in anything about the curse Rowle used.”

Neville nods. “I’m not sure when I’ll get a chance, but I’ll let you know what I find.”

Harry grips his shoulder. “Thank you, Neville. Seriously.”

Neville’s ears go a little pink. “Anytime.”

Back in his bedroom, Harry looks around the space. Between the windows, the doorway, the closet, and his furniture, the walls are mostly covered. He spends a moment studying the heavy fabric draped around the four-poster bed. Climbing up on it, he uses his wand to cut down the middle of the cloth against the back wall above his pillows, carefully tacking back the edges of the cloth to reveal patchy plaster and the peeling remains of some ancient wallpaper.

“Perfect,” he mumbles to himself.

On the exposed wall, he tacks a picture of Thorfinn Rowle in the center. Underneath, he puts an enlarged and duplicated sketch of the device he saw in Antonia’s shop. Spreading the rest of the newspaper clippings across the covers, he carefully puts them up—a picture of the crater left after the explosion, the damaged buildings.

Harry sits back, considering all the questions he wants answered. Why then? Why this device, if there was one? Why wait so long to get revenge on him? Where had Thorfinn Rowle been this whole time? Did he have the device all along?

 _Should_ it have killed him?

Last, after a brief hesitation, he adds a picture of the victim’s face. Olwent Ferriers looks down at him, face slightly careworn but still youthful, brown hair curling about his face.

Releasing the fabric, Harry lets it fall back into place, the wall hidden from sight.

Crawling into bed, Harry falls quickly asleep, not waking once until morning.

* * *

“Fix your grip, Weasley!”

Ginny grimaces, dutifully switching her hands, hating the way it instantly makes her feel like she’s going to fall off the broom, like she can’t be certain if she’ll make the next required turn. She can feel the dip in her speed as well.

Twisting her head to the side, she can see the blur that is Quinlan up ahead, Quaffle tucked under his arm. She’s falling behind. She’s not going to make the spot where she is supposed to be for the play.

She drops the modified grip, going back to the way she’s always done it, leaning low over the broom. Quinlan makes the toss. Ginny still doesn’t hit her mark, the Quaffle sailing down to the pitch below.

Quinlan doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head before heading back to his starting point.

“Again!” the Chaser coach bellows.

The next time, Ginny cuts a corner, needing the time, and just barely manages to get her fingers on the Quaffle before it slips out of her grasp.

“What the hell was that, Weasley?”

“I nearly had it.”

“Only because you broke your pattern. Do it right or don’t fucking bother doing it.”

It nearly climbs out of her then, all her frustrations and fears that are a nearly constant roar at the back of her head these days. She bites it back, taking a breath. “Yes, sir.”

“Again.”

At one point, Moran comes out to watch. She’s speaking to the Chaser coach, who only nods in agreement with whatever she’s saying. Ginny tells herself not to be paranoid, but knows they’re likely talking about her, about how much she is fucking this up.

She also doesn’t think that she’s imagining that the coach only starts riding her more now that Moran is watching. Of bloody course.

They run the play another dozen times, Ginny only falling further and further off the mark.

“That’s enough for today.”

“What?” Ginny says, hands tightening on her broom. “I can get this.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

Ginny glances at Moran, forcing herself to swallow back her frustration. The very last thing she needs is Moran thinking she’s a hothead on top of being a failure. “No, sir.”

“Then get off that broom so I don’t have to watch you murder this play any longer. Quinlan, you head for the showers. Weasley, pick up the equipment, will you?”

The equipment assistants are already on the field, clearly ready to do it. It’s a transparently churlish punishment, but Ginny just lifts her chin and does as she’s told.

Moran watches her dispassionately, like Ginny isn’t even important enough to merit disappointment.

By the time she’s done, the stadium is deserted and she feels about two seconds from eviscerating the next person who dares speak to her. Fortunately the locker room is empty as she stalks into it. Ripping open her locker, she tears off her gloves, chucking them in carelessly, followed by her arm and leg guards.

“Fuck!” she exclaims, slamming the locker door shut, feeling no satisfaction at the ringing clang echoing through the empty space, but having no idea what else to do.

“So you do have a temper,” a voice says.

Ginny spins on her heel to find Moran standing in the doorway. She nearly swears again. Of all people to observe her childish loss of temper, it would be Fianna bloody Moran.

“Good,” Moran says. “It would certainly be an improvement.”

Ginny bites back a caustic response, furiously attempting to rein in her anger.

Moran saunters into the room. “Word is you had a spot on the Harpies.”

“I did,” Ginny says, lifting her chin.

She runs a hand through her short dark hair shot with silver, looking unimpressed. “They’re a decent team.”

Ginny bites her tongue, knowing that ‘decent’ is probably all Moran is willing to concede.

“There’s quite a few decent teams over there. So I guess my question is, why come here? You running from something?”

“No.”

“Then why Ballycastle?”

“Because I wanted to train with you.”

“Really,” Moran says, tilting her head to the side as if this is amusing. “You have some sort of fangirl crush?”

Ginny’s hands curl into fists. “I want to be the best.”

Moran snorts. “Could have fooled me, from what I’m seeing out there.”

“I’m doing everything that’s being asked of me,” she says, horrified to hear her frustration coloring her voice.

“So you show up. So what? You think that’s all it takes? There are easily a dozen players who would kill to be where you are right now.”

As if Ginny isn’t intimately aware of that fact. As if she isn’t thinking about it all the damn time. Every fucking waking moment. She’s put way too much on the line to be able to afford to fail.

“Maybe you should just save us all the trouble and quit.”

Ginny’s head snaps up. “I won’t do that.”

“Why not?” Moran asks, apparently completely unmoved. “On the field, it’s pretty clear that you enjoy compensating for your weaknesses by going around them, by avoiding them. Is this what you do in all parts of your life? Swerve the moment someone gets in your way? Or are you just used to things being handed to you?”

Ginny takes a step towards Moran. “You don’t know a damn thing about me or what I’ve been through.”

Moran has the gall to look amused. “What are you going do? Hex me?”

For a reckless moment, she considers it.

Moran almost smiles. Striding closer, she jabs a finger at Ginny’s chest. “Do you feel that? The way you’d really love to punch me right now? Take that fire and show it to me on the goddamned field.” She punctuates her point with another vicious stab to Ginny’s sternum. “Stop holding back.”

“I’m not holding back,” Ginny grinds out, feeling absolute fury lifting her chest in uneven bursts.

Moran lets out a scoff. “Yes, you are. Because you’re too worried about failing. You want to show me that you really want to be here? Then be willing to fail utterly. To try and suck at it and slam your face into the dirt and then get back up and try again. Stop taking the shortcuts you’ve used all along. They’re a crutch. Pull it all apart in order to put it back together _better_. That’s how you get to be the best. But stop wasting my goddamned time by coasting along. I’m not interested in your mediocrity.”

Ginny’s fury seems to drain away, leaving nothing but a gaping chasm of fear. Because what if this is all she has?

Moran leans back, arms crossing over her chest. “Take the weekend and get drunk or have a spectacular shag or whatever it is you do to get your head back on straight, and then come back Monday and show me that you actually want this. Or I might have to tell them that you were a mistake. That you weren’t worth taking on. You hear me?”

_Can this really be happening?_

“I asked if you heard me, Weasley.”

Ginny lifts her gaze to meet Moran’s. “Yes.”

“Good. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

Ginny does as she’s told, turning and walking out, not remembering the walk home, just finding herself standing in the middle of her flat, staring around the dark, empty space.

Merlin, what is she doing here? Why is she doing this? What ever made her think she could?

She takes a long, painfully hot shower and then climbs into bed.

Hours later she wakes, the whispers and doubts and Moran’s vicious voice endlessly rattling away in her brain.

Rolling over, she fishes out her parchment and does the one thing she’s been trying so damn hard to avoid.

 _Harry_ , she writes. _Tell me I can do this. Tell me this isn’t a huge mistake._

She shoves it back into the drawer before she can give in to the temptation to siphon up the ink, wipe it all clear. Rolling over, she closes her eyes and tries to sleep.

She wakes to a message from Harry.

She’s tried to hear his voice in her head, to imagine what he might say. _You’re amazing, Gin. You’re the best Quidditch player I know._ Any sort of pep talk to make her feel better.

But never did she imagine what she gets, which is probably the longest letter she’s ever had from him. After not receiving a response from her, he clearly just started writing and writing, telling her about how Ron has practically moved in and how funny it is to watch them, because he thinks Ron is considering proposing and Hermione just thinks Ron is going mental. He thoroughly describes one of the Unspeakables who looks just like Kreacher but talks like Slughorn and dresses like Lockhart. He tells her about a dinner at the Burrow and a new product George tested out on Percy to disastrous, yet thoroughly hilarious results. He just writes and writes and it’s almost like having him sitting next to her, like being there with all of them. She’s laughing and crying by the end of it.

This, all the things she could have if she hadn’t been so deluded to think she could do this.

Only then, there at the very end, he writes, _You can do this, Gin. And if you ever begin to doubt it, just look at your wrist._

Ginny cradles her arm in her lap, staring down at the black ink curling across her wrist, the old green smudge of the messy snake still visible underneath. She’d had Millicent add the spider tattoo for a reason, not just to take ownership of the marks on her body, but to remind her that _she_ is in control of her fate.

 _My life is only ever what I make of it_ , she once told Harry.

Leaning over, she fishes a quill out of her drawer. _How is it that you always know the right thing to say?_

It doesn’t take long for a reply.

_Magic._

She laughs, the sound thick and foreign in her throat. Before she can think of what to write back, Harry continues.

_If you ever want me there, you know all you have to do is say the word, and I will find a way to sneak into your flat, right?_

_Right_ , she thinks, telling herself that it’s a lot—that she can do this on her own if she wants, but she also doesn’t have to. Not all of the time.

 _Yeah_ , she writes. _Thanks._

She lies back on her bed. Lifting her arm, she studies her tattoo. The spider has curled up on itself, legs tucked tight into the round body. Afraid to fail.

“Enough,” Ginny says. “Enough.”

Getting out of bed, she pulls on her workout clothes and heads down to the stadium.

Up in the air, she changes her grip, forcing herself to ignore the way she feels slower, the way it feels like she is going to fall off. If she falls, she falls. It can’t be about keeping up anymore, about scrabbling to prove something. It’s about seeing if she really is just mediocre, or if she can be more.

She sets off, running various routes over and over again, trying not to judge each shudder or each moment of awkwardness. She refuses to shift her hands back to her more comfortable patterns.

She will fucking master this. No matter the cost.

She considers next steps, asking the trainer what she needs to do, what work her body might need. Wonders if she asked, how much Moran might take pleasure in pointing out her every flaw. If maybe that would help. She’s been at it maybe an hour when an amplified voice roars out. “Weasley!”

She looks down, wiping the sweat from her face, seeing Moran standing in the middle of the pitch. “Shit,” she mutters under her breath.

“GET DOWN HERE!”

Ginny swoops closer, hovering a few feet above her, but refusing to dismount. “You shouted?”

Moran’s eyes narrow, at her tone no doubt. “I thought I told you to get away for the weekend.”

“No,” Ginny says, lifting her chin. “You said to do whatever I need to get my head back on straight. I guess I forgot that Quidditch has always been that for me.”

Moran crosses her arms over her chest. “Too fucking bad. You’re not allowed out here.”

“I don’t care,” Ginny says, refusing to be rolled over any longer. “Fire me or don’t. I’m not going to stop.”

“Oh really,” Moran says, eyes narrowing.

Ginny doesn’t budge an inch, no matter how much Moran is glowering at her.

Minutes seem to crawl by, and then, incomprehensibly, Moran smiles. “Then get your arse back up there.”

Tugging on the handle of her broom, she tears back up to the goals, eyes nearly streaming at the whip of the wind against her face.

Quidditch has always been enough. It will be again.

It’s time to tear it all down and see what she can make of it.

* * *

Harry hits the ground with a thump, his pride far more wounded than his bum. “Ugh,” he complains.

“Moved too slow,” Ron says, smiling at his mate.

Rather than respond with a snarky riposte, Harry sends his next spell of choice down the length of the room towards Ron.

The dining room’s table has been removed, leaving a long, narrow space which Harry has taken over as his dueling room. A giant crystal chandelier still hangs from the ceiling in the middle, the walls richly wallpapered to Fleur’s exacting specifications. So far they have avoided any stray spells hitting any of the various knickknacks on the sideboard, above which Harry’s grandparents watch on from their gilded frames hung in a spot of honor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see the two of them watching with interest as their grandson duels his best mate.

They aren’t allowed to repeat any curses, which forces them to be creative in their variation, and often the one who stalls and can’t think of something new is the one to lose. Of course, Ron won a round by unexpectedly hitting Harry with a Tickling Charm that had left him helpless with laughter long enough to be disarmed. Harry had responded in the next round by making Ron’s hair grow long enough that he couldn’t see.

Meaning that most of their ‘duels’ end in hysterics of one kind or another. It’s been good though, building Harry’s confidence in his magic. Yet more proof that he has gotten it back to what it was, curse be damned. He’s even getting better than he was, mastering more and more wordless spells.

They’ve been at it for nearly an hour when Kreacher interrupts them. “Sir has a visitor,” he says loudly enough to be heard.

Ron drops his guard immediately, which is unfortunate as Harry’s already halfway through casting a spell.

“Ah, fuck,” Ron exclaims a moment later as the curse hits him, shaking out his arm. He immediately grimaces and looks over at Euphemia. “Sorry.”

“A word my delicate ears have never heard before, I can assure you,” she says mildly, Fleamont laughing into his sleeve.

From behind Kreacher, Neville glances around the room. “Sorry if this is a bad time.”

“No,” Ron says, lunging towards him as to make sure he won’t leave. “It’s perfect timing. Save me from him. Please. He’s relentless.”

“Need me to arrest him?” Neville asks.

“Could you? That would be great.”

“On what charges?” Harry asks, laughing.

Ron leans forward on his knees. “Hell, I dunno. Mischief. Shenanigans. Roguery. Funny business.”

“Knavery?” Neville suggests.

Ron nods, waving vaguely at Neville. “All of the above.”

“Sadly, I’m not actually allowed to arrest anyone yet.”

“Useless,” Ron mutters.

Downstairs, the front door shuts with a resounding thump, Hermione calling up at them. “Oh thank Merlin,” Ron breathes. “Here’s an idea, Neville can take my place. Have fun beating up someone else for once, Harry. Though I dearly hope Neville trounces you.”

With that, Ron disappears downstairs.

After a beat of silence, Neville unhooks his cloak, draping it over a chair.

“You don’t actually have to duel me,” Harry says.

“I don’t mind.” Unexpectedly, he smiles. “It might be fun.”

Harry is definitely surprised, but is happy to line up across from him.

Unsurprisingly, working against Neville is something completely different than Ron. Not that Ron isn’t good, or dedicated, but their fights still mostly dissolve into amusement and insults at some point. Neville takes it completely seriously, and has a larger arsenal. Considering he’s been in training as an Auror for the last six months, that isn’t a big surprise. What is a surprise is the way Neville focuses primarily on defensive spells, only reaching for something offensive when he is certain it will end the exchange. A reminder that Neville is trained to de-escalate and contain, not duel.

When Harry mentions it, Neville just shrugs. “The safest fight is the shortest fight.”

As if to prove his point, their next exchange ends abruptly before it’s even really begun, Neville swinging his wand wide, lips barely moving, his spell hitting Harry square in the chest.

Harry has no idea what to expect, no time to work out a way to avoid or counter it, but at first it’s just like getting smacked in the face with a really soft pillow, except the sensation envelops his entire body, as if the air around him has turned to wet cement. The momentum of the spell pushes him back against the side table, the various trinkets on the surface barely rattling before Harry slides to the ground, still semi-floating in a pocket of viscous air.

He tries to think of a counter-curse, some spell to blow away the sensation, but as much as breathing doesn’t seem to be an issue, thankfully, he finds he can’t speak, and can only move his arm very, very slowly.

A moment later, the sensation lifts, his body collapsing to the floor as if gravity has suddenly returned to the world.

Neville’s feet are right in front of his face, and Harry rolls onto his back to look up at him. “Christ,” he says. “What was that?”

Neville leans down, offering him a hand, tugging him up to his feet. “We just learned it. Wasn’t sure I’d be able to pull it off. It’s a good one for subduing someone without causing harm. Especially in a crowd. Also keeps them protected from any other spell damage.”

Harry nods, thinking of all the times a simple Stunning Spell might cause unexpected harm—if someone is already hurt, or weak, or if they are high up in the air and at risk of falling. Or if they have a hostage.

“Will you show me?” Harry asks.

Neville looks unexpectedly pleased. “Sure.”

They spend a half hour on it, Harry peppering Neville with questions that he does his best to answer. By the end of it, he can manage the spell, though not as quickly or naturally as he’d like.

Neville gets up off the floor after Harry successfully curses him. “You picked that up much quicker than the rest of us did, that’s for certain.”

“I must have a better teacher.”

Neville laughs. “Who thought I’d ever be the one to teach you something?”

Harry grins, grabbing a towel and mopping his face with it. “So how do you counter it?”

Neville shakes his head. “It’s one of our assignments, finding a way to do that. If it’s possible.”

Harry considers that, already mentally running through various things that might work. He’ll have to teach the spell to Ron so he can try it out.

“I brought the file,” Neville says then. “And one on Rowle.”

“You did?” Harry asks, interesting spell immediately forgotten in the face of the thick files Neville pulls from his bag.

He shrugs. “I figure if you were asking for it, it must be important.”

“Thank you, Neville. Really,” he says, knowing what he risked by doing this.

He hands them over. “There’s nothing in there about the curse. I checked. Just that it was unidentified. I was thinking though, if that’s what you’re after, your medical files at St. Mungo’s might be more helpful.”

Harry nods, not having considered that. “That’s a great idea. Thanks.”

Neville pauses a moment, looking like he’s trying to find the right way to say something. “Look, I know you probably don’t really need it, but I want you to know that if there’s something going on, if you need help with something, there’s a lot of us who would be happy to do anything you need.”

Harry tightens his jaw against the curious sensation crawling up his throat. “It’s just curiosity, at this point, but I appreciate that.”

Neville smiles. “You never could resist a mystery, could you?”

Harry lets out a huff, shaking his head. “You should stay for dinner. It would be nice to catch up. And maybe I can help you come up with a way to get around that curse.”

“Yeah,” Neville says. “Okay.”

Harry stops at the door, hefting the files. “If you could not mention this to Ron and Hermione… They already worry enough about me cracking at any given moment.”

“Sure.”

After stowing the files in his room, Harry and Neville join Ron and Hermione down in the basement kitchen.

They chat a while about mutual friends, Neville filling them in on Luna’s latest trip and how Seamus and Dean are doing. A lot of his stories are peppered with mentions of Hannah, as he seems to eat most of his meals at the Leaky these days.

“Saw your dad and Tobias last week,” Neville says to Ron. “They came in and gave a talk.”

“That must have been enthralling,” Ron says with an eyeroll.

Neville shakes his head. “It wasn’t that bad. Muggle Relations is arguing for better training of Aurors about Muggle culture and Muggle law enforcement practices. Apparently they want to reduce the amount of memory modifications that are being used.”

“Well,” Hermione says, “a lot of those instances could easily be avoided with even the most basic understanding of Muggle law practices. Aurors can get a little too dependent on their wands.”

“I think what Hermione is trying to say,” Ron drawls, “is that it’s not all about the wand work.” He gives her an exaggeratedly lecherous wink.

Hermione’s lips press together primly, while Harry does his best not to laugh and draw her wrath.

“And here I thought it was the skill with which one wields it,” Neville says so casually into his pint that it takes them all a moment to catch the innuendo.

Then Ron is roaring with laughter, slapping his leg. “Merlin, Neville. It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?”

“Hard to know,” Harry says. “When has a Weasley ever been quiet?”

They spend the rest of the evening taking the piss out of each other, Harry catching Hermione watching him with a beaming smile more than once.

* * *

As Neville said, there is nothing specific about the device in the Auror files, no matter how carefully Harry combs through them. Unfortunately even his medical file produces nothing more than vague theories, none of which revolve around an actual object, just an ‘unknown curse’.

Having run out of avenues and still plagued with the nagging feeling that he is missing something, he returns to Antonia’s shop. Nominally he goes to return the form, even if the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ are the furthest thing from his mind right now—Peverell sister or not. Still, he’s carefully filled out the contract just to be clear what he’s getting into, and maybe as a way to get Antonia to be a bit more cooperative.

Walking into the shop, Harry glances around, trying to locate Antonia. Someone appears between the stacks, only it is definitely not Antonia. This woman is stooped with age, her back curved like a question mark as she leans on a cane, her face nearly obscured by the black veil covering her hair. But what little he can see of it makes him suspect she may actually be a hag—a being he’s read about but never actually seen.

He glances about, wondering if this is another customer, reminding himself that hags are only known to go after children, not adults.

“How may we help you, Mr. Potter?”

It takes him a moment to realize that the deep and melodious voice actually came from the stooped woman in front of him.

“Uh,” he says.

A moment later, Antonia steps out of the back hallway. She doesn’t spare a glance for Harry, instead stepping up next to the woman, bowing her head slightly. “Auntie,” she says, somehow sounding both affectionate and deferential. “Would you like me to see to Mr. Potter?”

The woman stares at Harry for another long beat before eventually nodding. “Yes, thank you, dear. I will attend to…the other matter.”

She walks away, gait slow and deliberate, Antonia not turning to address Harry until she is gone.

“So, that’s your aunt?” Harry asks, trying not to wince the moment the words pass his lips.

Antonia gives him a cool look. “One of them.”

He bites back an asinine comment about her aunt seeming nice. Then again, in comparison to Petunia...

Antonia clasps her hands in front of her. “So what do you need?”

He pulls the contract out. “I wanted to return this.”

She takes it from him, carefully checking it over before nodding. “I will begin the search as soon as I can. I’ll provide updates in writing twice a month.” If anything, she actually looks eager, like this is something she’s been wanting to do for a while.

“While I’m here,” Harry says, trying to sound casual, even though they both know he just as easily could have sent it by owl. “I’d like to know more about the drawing.”

She doesn’t look remotely surprised, but then again, he isn’t stupid enough to assume he knows anything she’s thinking. Leading him into the back room, she takes the illustration down from the wall, setting it on the table in front of them.

“This drawing was always a particular favorite of mine as a little girl,” she says.

He doesn’t comment on what a bizarre childhood she must have had, just hoping she’s referring to the aesthetics of the thing. “Do you know what it says?” he asks, gesturing at the writing beneath.

“Just a name,” she says. “Cyhiraeth’s Scream. Though I believe the object itself is sometimes referred to as Cyhiraeth’s Lantern.”

“Cyhiraeth?” Harry asks, pulling his notebook out and jotting the name down.

“A screaming spirit who foretells death.” Something in Antonia’s voice seems to harden. “A hag of great menace, it is said. Though more accurately, a goddess deposed. That’s enough to make anyone a bit enraged, don’t you think?” Turning, she pulls a book from one of the glass-fronted cases, flipping a page open to an illustration of a dark figure rising from the mist, great waters swirling at her feet.

Harry stares at it, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rising.

“This, however,” Antonia says, finger tapping on the glass covering the illustration, “merely bears Her name, but is made of wizard.”

Harry clears his throat. “And how did you know this is what was used? It wasn’t in the papers.” Or any of the reports, not that she _should_ have had access to any of them. But at the very least it means she didn’t just hear something from someone she knows in St Mungo’s or the Ministry.

She looks back at him, her gaze not wavering. “An explosion that size that costs the life of the caster and the eyewitness descriptions of black smoke and blue lightning? Anyone familiar with proper history should recognize that.”

And yet, no one in the Auror department or at St Mungo’s managed to make that connection. Of course, it’s hard to know what Antonia’s notion of ‘proper history’ is, or if the Aurors are just out of their depth. Maybe a combination of both. But it occurs to him that one place people would certainly know would be the Department of Mysteries. If he trusts anyone there enough to ask.

That’s a big _if_.

“And where would someone get one of these?” he asks.

“The lantern itself?” She shakes her head. “Before you were attacked, I wouldn’t have said there were any left in the world. That maybe it was even a myth. But clearly I was wrong.”

“That rare?”

“If someone were able to get their hands on one of these, it would be worth more than I can even imagine.”

“And if you had to guess?” he presses.

“Thousands. Tens of thousands.”

“Galleons?” he asks, totally unprepared to hear such a sum.

“More, if someone were desperate enough,” she says. “But even as a simple curio, not a weapon… There are many who would do _anything_ to add it to their collection. A reminder of older times. More uncomplicated times, some might say.”

Harry thinks that’s a rather odd way to put it. “And you? What would you say?”

Her smile is serene. “As little as possible.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“Family business,” she says as if that is both the beginning and end of it.

“Any chance you have relevant books in that secret room of yours?” It seems the safer first step than digging around the DoM. At least for now.

Her eyebrow arches as if on command. “This isn’t a lending library.”

Harry pulls out his money pouch, letting it fall with a thunk to the table. “I didn’t assume it was.”

She spends a moment gauging the contents of the pouch before nodding. “Follow me.” She leads him back into the hall, a door opening just where he suspected there was one hidden. He’s impressed by the protections she has in place. He’s not at all certain he’d be able to figure a way around them, but he’d like to try.

Inside is a small chamber ringed with shelves of books with a small desk at the center. She indicates that he should sit there.

He does, watching her wander the stacks, fingers trailing across the spines as if feeling them rather than reading them. She pulls a few down, often returning them with a shake of her head. Eventually she builds a small stack of texts on the worn old desk.

“These are most likely to be helpful.”

He nods. “And the illustration of the device from the other room?”

“Isn’t for sale. But I will allow you to make a copy,” she says, apparently feeling generous in the face of his rather large purchase. She also allows him to duplicate the pages about the goddess Cyhiraeth she showed him earlier, and so Harry leaves with a stack of books and a much lighter purse.

But with a path ahead of him.

Later, Harry meets Ron in Diagon Alley, the two of them heading out into Muggle London to go ring shopping. It would be all over the papers in a moment if they’d tried to do it anywhere else.

“Plus, some of those ancient bands come with weird bonding charms, and I’m not sure Hermione would want an old-fashioned wizard marriage.”

Harry, having no idea what wizarding wedding traditions are, old or new, takes his word for it.

They’re in the third shop when Ron stops, pointing into a case. “That one,” he says.

Harry peers down at the thin band inlaid with what look like dark blue sapphires, thinking to ask him if he’s really sure, but Ron seems more certain than anything ever before, like he’s taken an actual dose of Felix Felicis.

Harry nods. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

Ron grins.

* * *

A few days after Harry mentioned to Ginny that he kept his promise to visit _Verdigris_ , Ginny receives an owl from Antonia saying she’d like to meet for lunch the next time she’s in London. Ginny isn’t particularly surprised. Her parents arranged Ginny’s monthly portkey to bring her home in time for Ron’s birthday at the beginning of March, so she’s able answer the summons readily enough.

They meet at a little French eatery next to Malkin’s, talking broadly about various other Parlor girls--how Astoria is getting on with the challenges of being Mistress, how Tilly’s single-minded mission to open her shop is shaping up. Ginny tries to focus, but her curiosity only builds and builds the more Antonia avoids the topic Ginny knows really brought them here today.

They make it halfway through the meal before Antonia even brings him up.

“He’s not at all what I expected,” she says as she carefully cuts her filet.

Ginny doesn’t stop the smile from curving her lips as she tries to imagine what that meeting might have been like, knowing there really isn’t a point. “No. He never is.”

Antonia’s eyes dart across her face, taking in every small clue. “How long has this been going on?”

Ginny doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. She knew part of the cost of sending Harry to Antonia for help would be revealing this, her most closely guarded secret. She ignores the voice that suggests this had been her aim in the first place.

“A while,” she hedges.

Antonia seems to easily read between the lines of that. “I can’t believe it’s never been in the papers.”

Ginny lifts her glass, taking a long drink.

Antonia’s eyes narrow, clearly sensing blood in the water. “Ginny.”

She puts her glass down with a bit more force than planned, liquid sloshing onto the tablecloth. She forces herself to take a breath. “I have everything under control. There’s no need to worry.”

“Do you?” Antonia asks, and no matter how casually said, it still feels like an attack.

“Yes.”

Antonia doesn’t respond, turning back to her food. They eat in silence, and Ginny’s just begun to hope the topic is at a close when Antonia continues. “In my experience, it’s not exactly the kind of thing that can be _controlled_.”

“What?” Ginny asks.

“Love.” She says the word like it’s something particularly dangerous. “It doesn’t tend to work unless you’re willing to make yourself completely vulnerable.”

“It doesn’t?” Ginny says, her voice sounding foreign even to her own ears.

“No,” Antonia says like it’s so simple. An inescapable truth. “And that can be…difficult. Particularly for women like us.”

Ginny’s hand tightens on the napkin in her lap. “And exactly what kind of women are we?”

Antonia looks back at her. “The kind who always see the fall coming.”

Ginny feels something awful bloom in her chest, shoving it ruthlessly aside, wanting it _gone_. “You’ve always loved giving advice from on high, haven’t you?” she says, breathing perfectly even and voice cool enough to cut. “But I’m not some starstruck little girl anymore.”

Antonia doesn’t outwardly react, just nodding calmly. “Yes, clearly you have everything all worked out.”

“You know what they say about people in glass houses,” Ginny says, the feeling of observing from afar only intensifying as she watches her finger idly play with the lip of her glass--so calm, so aloof. Untouched by any emotion. “Last I looked, your house was pretty empty.”

Antonia stiffens, her face paling.

Ginny pulls out her money pouch, placing the precise number of sickles on the table before rising. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ve lost my appetite.”

She turns and walks out of the restaurant.

* * *

The Burrow is riotously full that evening, everyone there for Ron’s birthday, even Hermoine’s parents. Ginny lets herself get overwhelmed by the chaos, completing chore after chore, anything to ignore this confusing mess of what feels like rage and shame swirling in her stomach.

It’s easy to hide her preoccupation though, because halfway through the meal, a red-faced Ron gets up, Hermione’s hand in his, and announces their engagement.

The room absolutely erupts, everyone on their feet, Molly hugging and crying over both of them, Mr. Granger slapping Ron on the back while George and Bill immediately set about mocking him within an inch of his life.

It seems so soon, less than two years of dating, the two of them barely 20. But how many years before that of close friendship and saving each other’s lives and surviving their darkest moments together?

Ginny watches Ron look at Hermione like he can’t believe he can possibly be this lucky, and thinks about how the only time Hermione ever completely softens is when she is looking at him.

“We won’t be getting married right away of course,” Hermione is saying. “Things are awfully busy right now, and there is ever so much to consider…”

“But I still convinced her to say yes,” Ron says.

Everyone laughs.

“Yeah, you’ll have to tell us what potion you used,” George heckles.

Ron flips him off, Molly either missing it or not caring as she mumbles something about finding that special bottle she saved for an important occasion.

“Congratulations,” Ginny says once she gets her turn, hugging them both tight.

She’s in awe of how certain they are. How sure. They look like it isn’t even a risk.

Having helped Molly serve drinks around, Harry and Ron are laughing together to one side, and Ginny is struck by how much better he looks than the last time she saw him. How happy.

He catches her looking, smiling at her.

She smiles back before turning to listen to Hermione’s plans, focusing in on them as best she can. The rest of the evening is a giant blur of celebration and cake and endless ribbing.

“Hey,” Harry says, fingers brushing her arm as he appears next to her chair at one point, no one else near enough to notice. “Everything all right?”

She looks up at him, feeling everything roiling nauseatingly just under the surface. Looks up into his familiar, open face and smiles.

“Fine,” she says. “Everything’s fine.”

His expression is slightly quizzical, but he doesn’t get a chance to press, Ron calling him from across the room. After giving her another fleeting smile, he walks off.

She watches him go, telling herself she only told him the truth.

Because she has everything under control.

* * *

“Morning, Ethelyn,” Harry says as he walks into the reference library in the DoM, the collection of books on death and the Veil Room provided to him by Goldhorn stacked in his arms.

While he still spends most mornings in the Veil Room--ignoring the archway in favor of going over his notes, studying the texts from Antonia, and coming up with his next steps--he spends his afternoon in the library helping the clerks. The rest of the apprentices seem more than happy to leave him to the unglamorous task.

“Goldhorn is getting morbid this year,” Ethelyn notes as she takes the texts from him, noting which volumes are being returned before sending Harry to reshelve them.

He helps her finish the last of the reshelving and then watches as she repairs the spine of one of the books, muttering under her breath the whole time.

Harry regards her. “You know,” he says as casually as he can manage, “I came across something in one of Goldhorn’s books that I hadn’t heard of before.”

“Only one thing?” she asks, clearly only half paying attention to him.

“It mentioned something about magics with costs. Like suicide curses.” He pauses, really hoping this gamble isn’t going to bite him in the arse, but Ethelyn doesn’t seem to outwardly react. He has never seen her reading a newspaper, nor has she ever treated him like she has any idea of who he is, though he’s sure she’d probably at least heard of him before he walked in the door. She seems a bit like Binns, more interested in the past than the present.

“You mean transactional magics?” she mumbles around an awl stuck between her teeth as she works.

“Maybe. What’s that?”

She looks surprised to be asked. He knows clerks tend to be looked down upon by most people in the department, but Harry finds himself far more comfortable with her. She’s unlikely to wax on forever or make him read fifty treatises she wrote or assign a paper on the topic like an Unspeakable. _If_ you managed to get one of them to notice you exist.

Ethelyn turns back to her book. “You should probably talk to Unspeakable Rhinnen about that. She is all about classification and organization of phenomena.”

“Right,” Harry says, feeling disappointed. It can be hard to get an Unspeakable to focus long enough to have a conversation, let alone convince them that the topic is worthy of their time. “Sorry. I’m sure you have other things to do.”

She puts her wand down, turning to look at Harry like he’s talking nonsense. “It’s not that I have other things to do. It’s just that I’m hardly an expert.”

“Aren’t you?” He has a sneaking suspicion that she’s actually read more books in here than any of the Unspeakables.

He sees her consider it, finally walking across the room, skimming the stacks up and down until she finds what she’s looking for. “Here. Try this. It talks about all kinds of transferences, mostly the old magics, from the era before wands became standard. You know, outcomes with a cost. Blood prices, eyesight, a limb, a life…”

“Thanks.”

“Sure. Now can we get back to not talking to each other?”

Harry bites back a smile. “Yeah. Sure.”

Much later that evening, he’s in his room, skimming the book from Ethelyn.

“Harry, we’re going to be late!” Ron shouts.

“Yeah,” Harry calls back, not really paying attention.

Ron appears in his doorway. “Pull your face out of that book and come on.” He pauses. “I can’t believe I just had to say that to you.”

Harry laughs, shutting the book and pulling on his cloak.

They head for the Thestral and Hippogriff to meet up with Percy and George and Bill. A proper roast ‘celebration’ of Ron’s engagement, despite how little they held back at the initial announcement the week before. George informs them the evening will mostly consist of “getting pissed and pointing out all the witches Ron will now never have a chance to get a leg over. As if he ever had a chance in the first place.”

“There you two are,” Bill says when they finally arrive, pressing pints into their hands.

Harry’s head is still full of transactional magics and ancient goddesses and dark objects when he looks up to greet Bill. The pub is dark and smoky behind him, Harry registering the smell of ale, old wood, and pipe smoke. For a strange moment, he’s completely disoriented, a feeling of deja vu rolling through his stomach.

“Holy shit,” Harry says, everything sliding together all at once.

Bill lifts an eyebrow as Harry continues to stare at him. “I know I’m pretty nice to look at, Harry, but you’ve definitely seen me before.”

Harry doesn’t even bother to be embarrassed by the insinuation, still too caught up in what he’s just remembered. He _knows_ where he saw the lantern before.

Inside the hidden vault of Chaucer Mountley.


	13. Chapter 13

“Not a complete disgrace,” Moran concedes as Ginny touches down.

“No,” Ginny agrees, lifting her broom to rest on her shoulder. “Only partially.”

Moran laughs.

It’s been weeks of falling flat on her face day after day, things only seeming to get worse and worse, before Ginny is _finally_ beginning to see the first tiny glimmer of a change. She finally understands what Moran has been pushing her for. She was good at Hogwarts, but she became comfortable in her bad habits, in her one way of doing things. She has to unlearn all of that, to retrain her body and her mind.

“Most people just quit when faced with that,” Moran is fond of telling her. “You still might.”

But she won’t. She wants this too much.

Not to say that she never finds herself getting too in her head again. The yawning fear opens up sometimes, like she’s just been waiting for them to realize what a mistake they’ve made, that she really doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing—that she doesn’t belong here.

It’s a lie. She isn’t _supposed_ to know it all. She isn’t a fake, goddamn it.

Finally released from practice, she’s crossing the pitch when one of the reporters calls out to her. “Hey, Weasley.”

Ginny pauses, looking back over her shoulder in surprise. There are always a few reporters hanging around after practices, but they generally have very little interest in reserve players. She can’t imagine what they want to talk to her about, but takes a few steps back towards them. The team ownership has made it very clear they expect their players to have cordial relationships with the press. It isn’t hard, theses particular reporters both former Quidditch players themselves, and more likely to joke about than make a nuisance of themselves. 

“Yes?” she asks, smiling at them. 

“About Rita Skeeter’s new book…” he starts to say.

Ginny internally sighs, even as she keeps her face carefully blank. She can only hope she hasn’t finally written that biography of Harry she’s always threatening. “Written another one, has she?” 

The reporter frowns, sharing a look with his colleague next to him. “You _were_ at Hogwarts for the 1997-98 school year, right? When Severus Snape was Headmaster?”

“Yes,” Ginny says, not particularly liking the direction of this conversation.

He hands her a piece of parchment, clearly a flyer for the new book. Ginny looks down at it.

_Coming this April, Rita Skeeter’s most RIVETING book yet!_

_Reign of Terror: Hogwarts Under Severus Snape’s Rule Revealed_

_Detailed with first-hand witness accounts, this book uncovers what really happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry leading up to the fall of He Who Must Not Be Named. Discover the truth about Headmaster Snape’s cruel, indifferent approach to so-called education. Student torture, illegal magics, unnatural relationships, and a host of horrors that have never before been brought to light. How many terrors have gone unpunished? What kind of witches and wizards were trained in that school who now lurk among us, monsters hidden in plain sight? Readers won’t believe what Rita Skeeter’s dedicated investigation has exposed!_

_Order your copy today!_

Ginny feels everything in her body go cold.

“Weasley?” the reporter asks.

She shakes her head, shoving the parchment back at him. “I’m sorry,” she says, stepping back away from them, “but I don’t know anything about that.”

She hears him call out after her, and it’s only the strongest of self-control that keeps her from breaking into a run. 

Back in her flat she locates a spare bit of parchment and a quill, writing a message to Neville.

_What do we know about Skeeter’s book?_

She sends it off with an owl and sits back to wait.

* * *

Harry looks down at his breakfast, one finger absently tapping on the table. He’d been up most of the night, trying to reorganize his thoughts, to wrap his brain around the new set of facts in front of him in light of the revelation about Chaucer Mountley.

Ron stretches out, his foot nudging at Harry’s shin.

“What?” Harry says, straightening so abruptly he nearly loses his seat.

“Cut it out, will you?”

“What?” Harry says again, only belatedly realizing Ron means the steady tap of his finger. “Right. Sorry.” 

Ron frowns at Harry, looking about a second away from asking if he’s okay when Hermione sets the morning paper down, peering over at them.

“Have you heard about this new book?” she asks.

Ron gives her a fond smile. “Yes, Harry and I have a book club, you know.”

Hermione smooths the paper out, glaring over it at Ron. “It’s by Rita Skeeter. About Professor Snape.”

“Well, I know it’ll be rubbish,” Ron says dismissively. “And if she feels like trashing Snape, can’t say I care enough to get upset.”

“Ron,” she says, voice chastising, but he only reaches for her hand, thumb brushing across the ring on her finger.

Hermione bites her lip, her expression shifting to what Harry can only call _dreamy_.

Ugh.

Harry returns his attention to his breakfast. “Hermione,” he says, deciding this is as good a moment as ever. “What do you know about Chaucer Mountley?”

If he hopes to get an answer while she’s still half-distracted, he’s out of luck.

She turns, her eyes sharp on him. “You mean the Wizengamot member?”

“He’s still a sitting member?” Harry asks, incredulous. Bill had said he would at least lose his seat, even if he escaped criminal charges.

“It’s a family seat,” she says like this explains anything.

“Even after what they found in his vault?”

Hermione folds the paper and sets it aside. “Okay, Harry. That’s long enough. You need to tell us what’s going on.”

He looks to Ron, but he seems just as determined to hear Harry’s answer as well, as if this is something the two of them have discussed. For once, Harry doesn’t find that annoying. Probably because this isn’t just some vague notion anymore, a curiosity. It’s real. And the truth is, he thinks he may have gotten as far on his own as he’s likely to get. He needs their help. And maybe…it would just be nice to have something to share with them again.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his notebook. Tucked into the pages is a folded copy of the illustration from Antonia’s shop. Smoothing it out, he puts it on the table in front of them.

He taps his finger on the picture. “I saw this, in Mountley’s vault when Bill and I were there last spring.”

“You mean when you broke into it,” Hermione says with no little asperity. 

“What is it?” Ron jumps in, clearly hoping to avoid a fight.

“Cyhiraeth’s Lantern,” Harry says. “It’s what Rowle used to try to kill me.”

That seems to take a moment to penetrate and then Hermione is dragging the drawing closer. “What? How can you be sure?”

Harry opens his notebook to the appropriate page, letting her read the text he copied from the books he purchased from Antonia.

“It’s old. From back before the Killing Curse was developed. A way to kill, but not with a wand. A form of transactional magic.” At Ron’s blank look, he adds, “Ones that have a personal cost.”

“Like your life?” Ron says.

He nods. “Blood, bone, ability, vanity, or in Rowle’s case—life.”

“Vanity?” Ron asks. “What does that mean? It makes you ugly? What if you were a munter to begin with?”

“I have no idea,” Harry says. “But I know this describes exactly what happened. And I also know that they are incredibly rare. There is no way it’s a coincidence that I see one in Mountley’s vault and then six months later I get attacked with one.”

Hermione tears her eyes from the book, eyebrows furrowed. “Say you’re right, Harry. Say Rowle did use this. No one can use it again, right? And Rowle is dead. He can’t be punished _more_.”

“No,” Harry says. “But where did he get it?”

“Does it matter?”

“Considering it was confiscated by the Aurors and should be safely tucked away somewhere in the Ministry and not blowing up Diagon Alley, _yes_ , I would say it bloody matters.”

Hermione concedes the point. “I suppose that does have rather disturbing implications. You’re certain there couldn’t be two?”

“Enough that I’m going to make bloody sure. And even beyond that, why this?” he asks, gesturing at the drawing. “Why come after me this way? He could have used Avada just as easily.”

“Except you are notorious for not dying when people cast that on you,” Ron points out.

“True. Sure. But this object is both rare and expensive, and made a huge splash.”

“Which is significant why?” Hermione asks.

Harry pauses, knowing this is the moment he might lose them, or have to suffer them telling him that he’s being paranoid. “I don’t think Rowle was working alone. I think there were more people involved, and I think their aim was bigger than just killing me.”

“You think Mountley was part of that?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admits. “I just…I need to be absolutely certain. I need to know what this was all about, and how it happened, because I can’t risk someone coming after me again. I can’t risk someone else getting caught in the crossfire. There’s not going to be anymore Olwent Ferriers. Or Lunas. I won’t let there be.”

Neither Ron nor Hermione argue, both still looking down at the array of information spread across the table.

“How long have you been working on this?” Hermione eventually asks.

He shrugs. “A few weeks.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“I wasn’t sure what it was at first,” Harry defends himself. 

Hermione regards him, her brow furrowed. “You never used to be quite so good at keeping secrets, Harry.”

“Yeah, well,” he says dismissively. “I’m just trying to properly apply myself for once, aren’t I?”

Hermione looks a bit abashed. “No, you’re trying to keep people safe.”

“Just like always,” Ron says with a smile. “What do you need us to do?”

Harry lets out a breath at the immediate offer, not sure why he ever expected any different. “Maybe you could look over what I have, see if you agree with what I’ve come up with. Or if there’s anything I’ve missed.”

Ron nods. “Sure.”

“I can get information on Mountley,” Hermione says bracingly. “Certainly there must have been a criminal investigation after the Aurors confiscated the items from his vault. There will be records. And we need to figure out what happens to confiscated dark objects.”

“Bill seemed to think they end up in the Department of Mysteries,” Harry says.

Hermione and Ron share a look.

“Well, then,” she says. “You’ll need to make sure it isn’t there.”

Harry nods, knowing, somehow, that together they will definitely be able to figure this out. He’ll solve this, and then things can finally move on.

He’s close. He can feel it.

* * *

The dining room table is covered in files. In under a week, Hermione secured the relevant files, Ron read through all his existing notes, and Harry, once again in disguise, returned to the _Prophet_ archives to retrieve every article he could about Chaucer Mountley. Even Harry’s grandparents have gotten into the case, Fleamont occasionally adding a detail, or Euphemia pointing them in a new direction.

Chaucer Mountley’s file unfortunately turns out to be more redacted passages than actual words. The _Prophet_ is no better, not a single article to be found that even mentions his role in owning banned and dangerous dark objects.

“I would wonder who, exactly, he bribed to keep his seat,” Fleamont comments over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry hums in agreement. “And to get these reports so thoroughly cleaned.”

Is it possible he somehow exchanged the device for that clemency? And if he did, how could they ever prove it? More importantly, who might he have made the exchange with? It’s not like Thorfinn Rowle, a condemned Death Eater on the run, would have any sway over politics and criminal charges.

“You know,” Ron says from across the table, a stack of _Prophets_ next to him. He’d made his own trip to the archives, though he hadn’t been very clear on what he was looking for exactly. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about the explosion making a big splash. That maybe it was about more than just killing you.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks. 

“Yeah, I mean, people still haven’t stopped talking about it. It’s sort of endless, talk on the street, but also in the _Prophet_. It got me wondering if we might be able to figure out things that have happened because of it.”

Hermione looks up from her stack. “That’s actually…a really good idea.”

Ron rolls his eyes. “Some things are small and isolated. Like, the shops that shut down after the explosion and didn’t reopen. But there’s also all these opinion pieces that ran right after you were attacked, and a few that are still popping up even now. It’s all a lot of ‘we aren’t safe, what are we going to do, how are there still criminals running around?’ type stuff.”

“You think someone wants people afraid?” Harry asks, trying to follow his reasoning. 

“Well, I dunno about that, but then I saw this article,” he says, shoving one across the table, “and it got me thinking.”

Harry skims it before passing it off to Hermione. The article is about a proposed law to give Aurors greater powers to search private homes as well as use Veritaserum on suspects.

Ron indicates a pile of newspapers next to him. “The articles and opinion pieces supporting these new laws all seem to be using people’s fear, and even Rowle’s attack on Harry, as part of their reasoning. It’s all very ‘If the man who defeated You Know Who isn’t even safe, how can we be?’ I mean, how many new laws have been proposed since December having to do with making Wizarding Britain safer?”

“Half a dozen at least,” Hermione says.

“I know it’s kind of out there. People have been paranoid ever since the war and all, so it’s not exactly new,” Ron says, “but is there any way someone would want all that?”

“I think you’re brilliant, Ron,” Hermione says, pulling all the articles towards herself.

Harry considers that. “If the device has anything to do with Mountley getting off without any consequences, it would take someone inside the Ministry to do that, wouldn’t it?”

“Also,” Hermione says, looking pale, “Kingsley is staunchly against a lot of these new laws. He’s spent the last year fighting to get the Dementors removed from Azkaban. Also to reclassify certain offenses. The softening of some, especially ones that would be a positive step for magical creatures’ rights. And others, like crimes against Muggles, he’s tried to strengthen.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” Ron says.

Hermione nods. “Except…”

“What?” Harry asks.

“I’ve heard, just here and there…some people seem to think Kingsley is in danger of losing his position.”

They all sit back, contemplating the enormity of this rabbit hole Ron has taken them down. Can this really be all about unseating the Minister of Magic?

“Does me getting blown up hurt or help his case?” Harry wonders.

“This is all speculation,” Hermione says. “The other possibility is that someone is just taking advantage of the situation without having actually instigated anything. Which actually seems more likely. I’ve read all the files about Thorfinn Rowle. He was hardly the mastermind type. This doesn’t seem like something he would be involved with.”

“But he wouldn’t need to be though, would he?” Ron says. “If he was just as much a pawn as anyone else. Is it possible he didn’t even know the device would kill him?”

“Or maybe just knowing I would be dead was enough for him,” Harry says.

“But if someone put him up to it…” Ron says.

They all sit with that in silence a long while before turning back to their search.

“When was that article about the new law?” Hermione asks Ron, flipping through the stacks of papers. 

“Yesterday,” Ron says. “The 26th.”

Harry is barely listening, his own head loud with all the new possibilities. But for some reason that minor detail penetrates the fog.

“Wait,” he says, feeling the files and facts fall away all at once. “Today is March 27th.”

“Yes, well done,” Ron says, not looking up from the paper. “You’ve really mastered the passage of time.”

Harry lets out a long string of curses, Ron sitting back and looking suitably impressed.

“Forget something important, did we?”

Harry shoves to his feet, closing files as he looks up at the clock. Half seven. Meaning there’s still time at least. “I have to go.”

“Go where?”

“Oh, uh,” Harry says, thinking fast. “I forgot I got signed up for another one of those barmy night shifts.”

“But you just worked all day!” Hermione exclaims.

Harry waves his hand. “That’s what I get, being at the bottom of the pecking order.” Grabbing his wand, he moves for the door. “See you tomorrow!”

He leaves before either of them can ask him anything else.

Up in his room, he double checks that he has enough coin and glances quickly at himself in the mirror. It’ll have to do, he decides, grabbing his invisibility cloak and heading back downstairs.

Out on the front stoop, he Apparates to the Ministry. The atrium is nearly empty, but as he crosses into the Transportation Department, he finds a surprising amount of travelers considering the hour. Which means he has to sit and wait his turn, his leg bouncing impatiently.

When it’s _finally_ his turn, he pops to his feet. “Dublin,” he says, handing his ticket to the rather bored-looking attendant. Beyond asking the stock series of endless questions required for international border crossing, the wizard fortunately shows very little interest in what might be taking Harry Potter to Ireland at this hour.

By the time Harry makes his way out of the Irish Ministry on the other side and Apparates to Ballycastle Village, it’s nearly ten. The streets are dark and quiet, but Harry still uses his invisibility cloak as he tries to locate the address. Adrenaline has been pushing him blindly forward this whole time, so it’s only as he’s finally standing in front of Ginny’s door that he starts to feel a little foolish. He should have at least sent a message. What if she’s out? More likely, though, is that she’s already asleep.

Maybe she won’t appreciate his stupid impulse.

“Sod it,” he mutters to himself, dragging his cloak off. He’s here. It’s not like he’s going to leave without seeing her.

Reaching up, he raps his knuckles against the door a few times.

Nothing happens for a long time. Christ, maybe she _is_ out somewhere. He knocks again, almost immediately hearing her voice from inside.

“So help me, Riley, if you are pissed and lost again and banging on my sodding door at this hour, I swear I’ll—“ Ginny opens the door, her eyes widening as she stares back at him in astonishment. “Harry.”

It’s the first time he’s been here, but he doesn’t spare a glance for the flat, all his attention riveted to Ginny where she stands in shorts and an oversized t-shirt that he realizes is his.

_Save a broom, ride a Seeker_ , it suggests, and that does nothing at all for his focus.

Her hair is mashed a bit on one side of her head, her face creased with sleep, and he thinks she’s never been more beautiful.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, astonishment seeming to give way to concern as he still doesn’t say anything.

He spent the entire way over here thinking what he would say, something suitably momentous or romantic, but all that disappears as the last three weeks away from her rise up all at once and rather than explaining or even saying hello, he just steps forward and kisses her.

She makes a small sound of surprise, but meets him readily, arms winding up around his neck as she presses up against him.

God, he’s missed absolutely everything about her. The smell of her skin, the taste of her mouth, her perfect height, and he should probably try to calm down a moment, but Ginny’s hand is fisting in his shirt and she’s dragging him inside, the door closing behind them with a solid thump.

Which he is doubly sure of when he twists them about, pressing her back against it. They stay there, not a word between them as they continue to just kiss and kiss until Harry feels like there is just no catching his breath.

“Hi,” he finally manages to say when they break apart.

She smiles up at him. “That’s one hell of a hello.”

He shrugs, fingers tugging playfully at her hem, no longer harboring the slightest doubt as to his reception. “I thought I’d come get my shirt back.”

She blushes even as her chin lifts like she refuses to apologize for nicking it. “It’s not like you were ever going to wear it.”

“I’ll have you know I _have_ worn it.”

She gives him a look of disbelief.

“Okay,” he admits. “I wore it once when the laundry situation really got out of control, and only under a button up. I spent the entire time terrified someone might somehow notice.”

She laughs. “I figured you wouldn’t miss it.”

He slides his hand up her side, thumb tracing the edge of the lettering. “Well, it looks much better on you anyway.”

Ginny’s breath catches, her arms tightening around his neck. “Not better off me?”

“That too,” he says, pressing closer, mouth back on her neck.

“Besides,” she says, her hands sliding up the back of his shirt. “If anyone is going to be riding a seeker…” 

“Fuck,” he breathes, feeling his heart swell to ten times its normal size. “I’ve missed you so sodding much.”

She slips out from under his arm, but only to tug him back towards the bed. “Prove it.”

“Gladly,” he says, surprising her by scooping her up and carrying her to the bed.

It’s nearly midnight by the time Harry finds himself dozing contentedly, Ginny curled up against his side like she belongs there, and, yes, this is clearly the best idea he’s ever had. He’s wondering why he never thought to lie about having a night shift before. He wonders idly if he could do this every night without risk of dropping dead of exhaustion. 

“Harry?”

“Hmm,” he says, sliding his hand up her bare back.

“Happy March 27th,” she says into his chest.

It takes Harry a moment to register that and then he feels a wide, probably stupid smile spread across his face. One year exactly to the day she showed up at Grimmauld Place and they decided to finally make a real go of it. Ducking his chin, he presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “Happy March 27th.”

He can feel her smile against his skin. “Thought it might be your turn to show up on my doorstep unannounced?”

“Hopefully that’s where the similarities end,” he says, trailing his fingers along her hip, thinking how awkward and unsure they’d both been. “Because this kind of welcome might have made that Harry faint dead away.”

Ginny lifts her head, propping her chin on her hand. “Yes, well, this Harry knows a bit more what he’s about.”

“Only a bit?”

She appears to think hard on the subject. “A smidge?” she amends, lips twitching.

He rolls her under him, pressing her into the mattress, his hands trapping hers on either side of her head. “Excuse you,” he says, rubbing his face against her neck, making her squirm as his beard tickles her.

Ginny laughs helplessly. “I’m not going above ‘a tad’, no matter how much you torture me. That’s my final offer.”

“Are you trying to goad me into a demonstration?”

“I’d never be so sneaky.”

He pulls back, smiling at her. “What a lie.”

Lifting up, she kisses him deeply, and Harry happily relaxes into kissing her back.

There’s no rush after all. They have all night. And he isn’t going to waste even a moment of it.

* * *

It’s only a few days after Harry’s impromptu visit that Ginny gets to see him again at her monthly visit back to the Burrow—another fact to illustrate just how unpredictably and sappily romantic Harry can be when he sets his mind to it. Not that Ginny at all minds. It would feel like quite the gift, after all, seeing him twice in such close succession, if it weren’t for the occasion: the twins’ birthday. Ginny was already in England with her team for one of the first matches of the season, so she’s able to spend Sunday with her family before Flooing back.

Unsurprisingly, things are uncomfortable. They’ve been stumbling through their rituals, constantly tripping over unseen painful moments. Ginny supposes it’s only worse that it _is_ easier than the year before. That next year might be even easier. But that George still may never have a day to celebrate him that isn’t tinged with loss.

After an enormous midday feast, they all congregate in the sitting room, Mum conspicuously absent. To cover the silence, someone turns on the radio. 

At first it’s just music, and then a silly trivia show, but then they are told to stay tuned for an interview with Rita Skeeter.

Harry looks up from his ubiquitous little notebook that she’s noticing he carries everywhere with him now, a frown marring his face. Ron heaves to his feet to change the dial.

“Leave it,” Ginny says.

“Really?” Ron asks. “She’s a hack. It’s not like we don’t already know that.”

“Yes, really. Leave it.”

Ron gives her a wary glance, but leaves the dial where it is.

Even with the help of Neville and Hannah, Ginny hasn’t been able to find much information about the book since it was first announced. As the publishing date gets closer, she’s not surprised that Skeeter is finally starting to do press. Ginny just needs to know, one way or another.

_“We have Rita Skeeter in the studio today to give us a sneak peak into the contents of her upcoming book,_ Reign of Terror: Hogwarts Under Severus Snape’s Rule Revealed _. Thank you for being here, Ms. Skeeter.”_

_“Thank you for having me.”_

_“Can you tell us how you decided to write this book?”_

_“Certainly. There has been a lot of mystery around Severus Snape since the end of the war. He Who Must Not Be Named’s right hand man since the first war, but also supposedly a spy for Dumbledore. It’s always been hard to know what was true about him. But what I found really interesting was trying to understand who he was as Headmaster of Hogwarts. There have been rumors, of course, as well as the details shared during the Great Trials. But these seemed to paint a partial picture at best. After all, Severus Snape did not survive to stand trial, did he?”_

_“You thought you could provide a fuller picture.”_

“ _Oh, yes_ ,” Rita says. _“When I first started researching, I must admit I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for. I just thought the students deserved a chance to tell their stories, you know?”_

“Unlikely,” Ron mutters.

Ginny shushes him, leaning forward.

_“While you primarily discuss Severus Snape, I’m told a few students also rose to prominence in the narrative. Can you give us an example?”_

_“Of course. Ginny Weasley, for one,”_ she says.

Ginny feels everyone’s eyes on her, but doesn’t look away from the wireless, refusing to react to this revelation she’d been so hoping to never hear.

_“In the course of my interviews, Miss Weasley was mentioned from time to time, but nothing much of note. She first really caught my attention when one or two people were really impassioned about her being a hero. I thought, ‘Well, everyone loves a hero.’ But imagine my surprise, when I started poking around, that far more people were too terrified to even speak of her. Some flat out refused. That caught my attention. Especially when it became clear that she was a particular favorite of Severus Snape. A Slytherin born to a family of Gryffindors. A person out of place. The pieces began to come together then, painting a very vivid picture. An intimidating student, known for bullying. Apparently she ran her Quidditch team ruthlessly, using corporal punishments on people disagreeing with her. Freely using curses. But even I was surprised what I found when I dug deeper. The rest of that was nothing compared to what Miss Weasley involved herself with at Hogwarts. None of which has ever been revealed before.”  
_

_“Of course, you’re not going to tell us what you found?”_

Rita laughs. _“You’ll have to wait and buy the book when it comes out.”_

_“Which is in two weeks. Thank you for speaking with us.”_

_“My pleasure.”_

The radio switches to a highly animated voice talking about a glamours course that changed her life.

Bill gets to his feet, snapping the radio off with a click. A quick glance confirms that her brothers are all red-faced with rage. She doesn’t let herself look at Harry.

“Apparently Urquhart talked to her,” Ginny says, the first to break the heavy silence. “He must have really enjoyed that.” She wonders which thing he finds to hate most about her still--that she kicked him off the Quiddtich team for being a prick, or that he’d chosen the wrong side in the war of the Carrows and she hadn’t. Either way, she can only begin to imagine the things he would gleefully tell Skeeter. 

“That rank, daft _cow_ ,” Ron growls.

Ginny shrugs. “All I heard her say is that I ran a tight squad and some people were afraid of me. I can’t control what people think of me. Least of all Rita Skeeter.”

“If people didn’t want to talk about you it was only because they respect your privacy,” Percy points out, fiercely loyal to the end.

“Sure,” Ginny says. Which, of course, means that the only people who did talk about her were people who probably have something against her. She gets to her feet. “Shouldn’t we be engaging in birthday shenanigans?”

“Right,” Bill says.

Later that evening Harry is the first to leave, claiming an early morning. After saying goodbye to everyone, he crosses the yard. Only someone closely watching would notice that instead of going out onto the lane, he ducks around behind the broom shed.

“I think I need a broom ride,” Ginny says.

“Want company?” Bill offers.

“No, thanks.”

Sure enough, when Ginny walks behind the broomshed, Harry is there pacing back and forth.

“Ginny,” he says, turning to her.

She walks straight up to him, her head tucking under his chin as she presses her ear to his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asks, arms closing tight around her.

She nods. “I wish I could say I was completely surprised.” There was never much chance that she wouldn’t show up somewhere in Skeeter’s book. 

“You knew?”

“I suspected.” 

“Hey,” he says, leaning back and meeting her gaze intently. “She doesn’t know a bloody thing about you.”

She tries to be warmed by how clearly incensed he is on her behalf, by his belief in her, but there is this niggling doubt that maybe, somehow, Skeeter knows far more than Ginny would like.

“Maybe you can sue her or something,” Harry says. “Ask Hermione if there’s some way to stop the publication. Or just let me curse her until she bloody well takes it back. There has to be something we can do—”

He cuts off mid word as Ginny turns her face into the soft spot where his neck meets his collarbone, dragging his shirt down so her mouth can explore, and Merlin, how can just the scent of his bloody shirt make her entire body feel weak?

His hands close around her shoulders, holding firm even as his breath releases unsteadily, and she likes the idea that she can affect him just as quickly.

“Ginny,” he says, and she can tell just from the sound of his voice that she’s successfully derailed him from his growing vendetta against Skeeter.

She takes her time, noting the way his head falls back, his pulse thrumming under her tongue as her other hand slips up under the hem of his shirt. “I don’t want to think about her or the stupid book right now, Harry. Or let her ruin what little time we have together.”

He grabs her waist, pulling her tight up against him, letting her feel just how interested he is. “No?”

She shakes her head. “There are much better things to do with our time.”

“Here?” he asks, voice faltering slightly.

“Yes,” she says. “Please.”

She’s ready to have to convince him, but he’s already pressing her back against the shed wall, mouth on hers as he pulls at the buttons on her shirt, hands firm and urgent on her breasts and yes, this is _exactly_ what she needs.

Here with him like this…everything is simpler and she never feels more wanted and cared for and _needed_. Nothing else seems to exist but him.

“Charm?” he asks, hands already up under her skirt as she impatiently pulls at the opening of his trousers.

“Already did it.”

He smiles. “Feeling pretty confident, were we?”

She looks up at him, hand sliding down into his trousers. “Yes.”

“Good,” he growls, grabbing her chin and kissing her deeply.

He eventually manages to get her knickers off and then he is lifting her up. Ginny wraps her legs around his waist, one hand gripping the ledge above her head as her back presses against the shed. She doesn’t think about the wisdom of this, the logistics, just wants him deep inside her, wants this fast and furious and _now_. He doesn’t disappoint, pressing up into her, finding a way to make it work, and Merlin, maybe his ridiculous obsession with building his strength is paying off in unexpected ways.

It’s so good and hits her in the exact right spot, and they haven’t set any privacy charms at all, and so she bites down hard on her lip to keep quiet, but Harry is being far less careful, and who knew Harry, of all people, would have such a wonderfully filthy mouth?

She lets her head fall back, her eyes closing as she forgets everything but this perfect, cresting feeling he’s conjuring in her, building, building, building until there is absolutely nothing left to hold onto but him.

As always, gravity eventually wins, all too literally as he carefully puts her back on her feet. She is nearly cocooned by him as he braces his arms on either side of her, the rush of their breathing all she can hear.

“I wish you could stay longer,” he eventually says, hands gentle and restless on her arms, like he wants to keep her here.

“Me too,” she says, because this is how it always feels these days, one moment stolen away and always too short.

His fingers brush along her cheek. “I was thinking I could come out one night next week. I could say I pulled another night shift.”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding.

He cradles her cheek, kissing her deep and relentless, like she’s the most important thing in his world, and when she’s here with him like this, how can she do anything but believe it?

Eventually they pull apart, adjusting their clothes and erasing any sign of their tryst, and then Harry is reluctantly walking away from her.

He looks back at her once before disappearing around the corner, taking all warmth and certainty with him.

* * *

“So it was definitely logged as evidence in the original report on Mountley’s vault,” Harry confirms quietly as he and Hermione walk into the Ministry together. “But it’s also definitely not in the Department of Mysteries and it was never logged at that end.” Harry had finally been able to confirm that after spending the last two weeks assisting the clerks in the archive vaults. The lowly, very much overlooked clerks have been an endless font of information for Harry, with the added bonus of catching no one’s attention.

As far as Goldhorn is concerned, he’s still researching the veil. But that is a worry for a different day.

“Meaning it must have disappeared somewhere in between,” Hermione says.

“Yeah,” he says. He supposes it should be a relief the lantern hadn’t somehow disappeared from the DoM, but that doesn’t change the fact that someone is quite possibly siphoning dark objects out of the Auror office.

“Hard to know where that could have happened,” Hermione says. “I’m not familiar enough with the processes surrounding the storage of confiscated items. But I can look into it.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I might have another idea too. I was thinking—”

Before he can elaborate, he catches sight of someone approaching quickly out of the corner of his eye. The wizard’s hand barely brushes his shoulder before Harry twists abruptly, putting himself bodily between the wizard and Hermione. Pulling his wand with one hand, he uses his other arm to shove the wizard back, forearm across his throat.

The wizard lets out a high squeak of surprise as his back hits the nearest wall, a package dropping to the floor with a thump as he scrabbles at Harry’s arm.

“What is this?” Harry demands, not letting up pressure on the wizard’s throat even as he confirms that he doesn’t have a wand pulled.

The wizard doesn’t answer, still just tugging at Harry’s arm.

“I don’t think he can breathe, Harry,” Hermione says from somewhere nearby.

Harry marginally reduces the pressure, the wizard sputtering.

“Ms. Skeeter, sir. She paid me to get that to you. Please don’t kill me.”

Harry glances down at the package now sitting on the floor. With a flick of his wand, he sends it zooming up to eye level. Now he can see that it’s a book wrapped in a garish red bow. There’s a carefully inked note in acid green ink.

_With my compliments. XOXO, Rita_

“Is everything alright, Mr. Potter?” An Auror, Harry identifies, here far too late to do anything actually useful.

Glancing around, Harry all too belatedly realizes that this scene is exactly the kind of thing Rita is no doubt hoping for.

He leans back, releasing the wizard. “Everything’s fine. I was just putting this trash where it belongs.”

The wizard flinches, but Harry merely sends the book flinging towards the nearest bin where it lands with a resounding bang.

“Fine with me,” the wizard says, clearly eager to get out of Harry’s range as he scurries away.

People are definitely staring. Harry stows his wand. He can only hope he hasn’t created more bloody fodder for the papers. The last thing he needs is to give the book a moment more attention that it deserves.

“Harry?” Hermione asks.

“I’m fine,” he says, his heart still pounding in his ears. “Let’s get out of here.”

As they cross the atrium, Hermione looks around before ducking over to the bin to pick the book up out of the trash, slipping it quickly into her cloak.

Harry gives her a scandalized look as they step into the lift, but she just mulishly stares back at him. “Everyone else is reading this. Don’t you think we should too?”

He shakes his head, not bothering to argue as she peels off for her office. Harry continues down to the DoM and tries to put it from his head. 

Giving the severe and overly territorial archivists a wide berth, Harry finds his way to the clerks, greeting them all.

“Mr. Potter,” they say politely, finally used to having him around.

He completes the tasks they set him to with minimum fuss. He once again thinks their reaction to what to him seems like bare minimum politeness is horribly telling of how the average DoM employee treats them. As if the lower-level staff with no hope of advancing to Unspeakables have a disease they might catch through conversation.

He waits until he sees a clerk retrieve one of the heavily protected log books from the vault before approaching.

“I’m curious,” Harry says. “Can these be changed?”

“What?” she asks, arm braced across the ledger like she’s going to have to protect it from him.

“I just meant, if someone made a mistake or something, can we go back and change it?”

“Did someone make a mistake?” she asks, looking horrified.

“No,” he says. “I just meant, say I logged something and did it wrong. Hypothetically.”

“Well, we hardly let apprentices log items, but no, the logs are charmed to make sure no one changes anything. Of course the archivists _can_ , but it’s a pain. And neither of them can do it on their own. So don’t get any ideas.”

Harry lifts his hands. “Understood.” 

On his lunch hour, he goes to Gringotts to follow through with the idea he hadn’t got a chance to share with Hermione. In the bank, he slips past the goblins, feeling their eyes following him, and ducks into Bill’s tiny office at the back.

He knocks on the doorframe. “Bill?”

He looks up from his desk crowded with various ledgers. “Harry. What brings you by? Need to get down into your vaults?”

Harry shakes his head. “I was actually wondering if you’d have time to grab a pint after work.”

“Yeah?” he says, looking surprised. Which, considering Harry has never asked him before, isn’t unexpected.

“If you’re busy…”

“No,” Bill says. “I’ll just let Fleur know I’ll be late.”

Harry nods. “I’ll come back at half five?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

Harry spends the rest of his afternoon in the Veil Room, reviewing what he knows about the process of logging and storage of items in the DoM, jotting down the questions he still needs to find answers to. When it’s finally five, he climbs back out and heads to Diagon to wait in front of Gringotts.

Bill joins him, the two of them walking toward the Leaky. Harry doesn’t stop there though, heading through the pub and out into Muggle London. Bill doesn’t protest, just giving Harry a long look before following him down the street.

They end up in a Muggle pub, one Harry’s walked past many times but never been in.

Bill follows him up to the bar, eyes clearly trying to take in all the details all at once, especially the large telly above the bar showing a rugby match. Harry buys them both ales and picks a small table in the rear.

Bill sits across from him. “You’re being very mysterious, Harry. Should I be worried?”

“No. I just didn’t particularly want an audience for this.”

“Now I _am_ worried,” Bill says, taking a long draw on his pint. 

“Look,” Harry says, not sure how else to do this other than just dive in. “I need a favor.”

Bill gestures broadly at the pub. “A nice, upstanding, legal favor, I take it.”

“I’m looking for information about a vault.”

Bill’s face shutters, making him look terribly intimidating. “Meaning your own vault, of course.”

Harry doesn’t bother correcting him, both of them far too aware that there would be no need to come to this out-of-the-way place if that’s all Harry wanted. “I need to know when in the last year a particular vault was accessed and how much gold was removed from it.”

Bill’s expression doesn’t shift. “Sure you don’t want the goblins’ High Holy Hammer too?”

Harry can’t help but wince at the dripping sarcasm in his voice. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

Bill leans in, voice low and hard. “No, it’s an _impossible_ ask. The entire reputation of the institution is based on absolute confidentiality. No one can access that sort of information. Not even the British Ministry, not even with criminal cause.”

“I’m not the British Ministry,” Harry says.

Bill scoffs. “And that makes it _better_?”

“You told me once, that being at Gringotts meant you could at least keep an eye on what’s happening under your nose.”

Bill’s eyes narrow, clearly not liking the reminder. “What is this even about? Which vault?”

Harry looks down at his drink, turning it in his hands. “Rowle’s.”

Bill noticeably relaxes, like the whole thing makes sense now—Harry being paranoid or maybe looking for petty revenge. “Harry. He’s dead. You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Harry lifts his chin, refusing to be patronized. “That only means something if he was working alone, and it still doesn’t answer how he got his hands on the curse in the first place.”

“What do you mean, ‘got his hands on it’? It was a curse. He _cast_ it.”

Harry shakes his head. “No. He used a dark object. An incredibly rare one.”

Bill seems to digest that tidbit. “Something from his family vault?”

“Well,” Harry says pointedly, “I wouldn’t have any way to know that, would I?”

“Neither do I,” Bill says, words carefully clipped.

They stare across the table at each other, each equally unmoveable.

Harry lets out a breath, not seeing any way to get around giving Bill more information. He needs him to get why this is so important. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t in Rowle’s vault. I think he bought it.” 

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I know where it came from. It was in Mountley’s house.”

“What?” Bill says, voice low and dangerous.

“You’re the one who told me any of those items would go for a fortune on the black market. From what I’ve learned, you were more right than you knew.”

“The Aurors confiscated everything.”

Harry lets out a humorless laugh. “Did a bang-up job, too, judging from the gaping hole in my side.”

“Christ,” Bill says, dragging a hand over his face. “You think they may be in on it?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t have any idea who might be in on it. That’s the main problem.”

“I suppose I should take it as a compliment that I’m apparently above suspicion.”

“I need to figure this out,” Harry says. “I need to make sure no one else is coming after me again. I can’t let anyone else get caught in that. What if next time it’s Ron or Hermione or--” 

Bill puts up his hands. “Look, I get it. And I wish I could help you. I really do. But those records simply don’t exist.”

“Bill—”

“Seriously, Harry. Have you ever had to report to me how much money you took out of your vault? The bank’s job is to _protect_ your vault, not track what you have in it.”

Harry sits back, having a hard time believing the goblins don’t have some way of tracking things. But if it’s actually true, or Bill just honestly doesn’t know or have access... “So this is another dead end.”

Bill looks around the room, likely double-checking that no one is paying them any attention. “Let me just…think about this, okay? I mean, I could lose my job, or much worse, if the goblins ever found out I’m even _considering_ trying to help you.”

“I know,” Harry says. “Thank you.”

“It’s not like you’re really giving me much of a choice.”

Harry laughs. “Welcome to my world.”

They finish the rest of their drinks, chatting more idly about other things, like Ron and Hermione’s engagement--“They’re practically _babies_ ,” Bill mutters at one point--and Molly’s state of organizational fervor.

Through it all, Harry can’t help but feel like things are frostier between them, like Bill resents what Harry has asked of him. It’s possible he’s just distracted, but it doesn’t matter either way. Harry doesn’t have a choice.

After saying goodnight and heading their separate ways, Harry wanders his way back to Grimmauld Place. He finds Ron in the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says. “Where’s Hermione?”

“Still reading the sodding book,” Ron says, gesturing vaguely upstairs. 

Harry shakes his head, filling himself a plate and sitting down to eat. He’s just about finished when Hermione walks into the kitchen and announces, “It’s rubbish.” She drops the book on the table with a thump.

“There’s a surprise,” Ron mutters.

Harry looks down at the cover, Rita’s name and the title of the book scrawled across the dark silhouette of Hogwarts, the green stain of a dark mark twining between the letters. “Is Ginny in there much?”

Hermione nods. “Most of it is about Professor Snape. But there is most of a chapter that focuses on her.”

“Really?” Ron asks. “What does it say?”

“Many things. Plenty of rumors and gossip. Everything short of an outright accusation of her being a new dark lord in the making. But mostly it talks about her and Snape. Ginny being some sort of protégée. It also seems to strongly suggest…”

“What?” Ron asks.

Now Hermione looks downright uncomfortable, giving the book another black look, only this time seemingly just as worried as annoyed. “That they had an…unnaturally close relationship.”

Ron just looks confused, but Harry feels anger climb his throat, knowing Hermione wouldn’t look like that if it just accused them of being best mates. “Sexual,” he guesses.

“What?” Ron says, nearly falling out of his chair.

Hermione nods. “Yes.”

Ron surges to his feet. “That bloodthirsty, lying hag! You never should have let her out of that bloody jar. In fact, let’s go get her now and put her back in!”

“Has anyone spoken to Ginny?” Hermione asks, looking between the two of them.

Despite Harry’s intentions of visiting her more often, he’s only made it out once since the twins’ birthday. And they hadn’t exactly spent a lot of time talking. Rowle and the lantern have been all-consuming. 

“Should we go over and see her?” Ron asks, looking guilty.

Hermione seems uncertain. “I can’t imagine she would appreciate us making a big deal out of this. But I honestly don’t know.” She turns to look at him. “Harry?”

He looks between them, shaking his head. “I’m sure you two would know better than me,” he says.

Hermione’s hands go to her hips, shaking her head in exasperation at the situation. She never did like not having the answer.

“I wonder if my family knows yet,” Ron says. “Merlin help the person who tells Mum.”

They go back and forth a while on the topic, Ron eventually heaving reluctantly to his feet and heading over to his parents’ house, the book tucked under his arm.

Harry takes advantage of the moment to disappear up into his room, pulling out the parchment.

_Ginny? Are you there?_

He’s stupidly relieved when she answers a few minutes later. _Yeah._

_You okay?_

_Well, I got plenty of attention on the pitch today for some strange reason. Suddenly I’m a celebrity. And I’m still not even a starter._

Harry’s jaw tightens, finding these parchments far more annoying than helpful at the moment, not able to see her face. There is no way she doesn’t already know, he tells himself.

_I’m assuming you didn’t read it,_ she writes. _We all know how you feel about books after all._

_No,_ he says, in no mood to be teased out of his anger. _I didn’t._

He’s considering it, but he gets so angry at Skeeter even at the thought of it, remembering those long horrible days trying to reconcile with her book about Dumbledore. He came to terms with it, and maybe that was necessary even, but he’s not letting Rita do that, not with Ginny.

_But Hermione did,_ she writes.

_Yeah._

_Diligent as always._

_Ginny_ , he writes, not sure what else to say.

_There’s no need for you to worry. It’ll blow over_. _I’m way too busy to give it any thought anyway, all this travel we have coming up._

_Do you want me to come out?_

_Harry. Please don’t make a bigger deal out of this than it is. She’s a hack, and the book is ridiculous. I just have to hope most people are smart enough to realize that._

Most people aren’t, in Harry’s experience, but he isn’t going to point that out. _My offer to curse her into recanting still stands._

_Ha. What a way to guarantee even more attention for the sodding thing—The Chosen One going off the rails and attacking a journalist. No, you pretending you’ve never even heard of it is the best thing you can do for me._

He sighs. _I’ll try._

In the days that follow, the closest Harry gets to seeing Ginny is looking at pictures of her in the papers. It feels like there is a new one every day as she travels about with her team, each headline more sensational than the last. She is always utterly calm, looking back at the camera as if she hasn’t a care in the world. Like the scrutiny doesn’t matter to her.

Harry bites his tongue, and tries to pretend he believes it.

* * *

Ginny weathers the next two weeks easily enough, fortunately spending the majority of it on the continent, where most people couldn’t care less about a stupid book about a war they watched dispassionately from afar. Not that there aren’t British sportswriters following the team about. They are generally more focused on Quidditch, but that doesn’t mean they don’t take advantage of having access to Ginny by asking questions, even if most of them seem visibly uncomfortable doing it. Not the most humane thing, she supposes, haranguing the suspected victim of sexual molestation. Though she had been of the age of consent at the time in question, or so a reporter felt the need to point out right before one of her teammates lost control of a bat and smacked the git in the face. 

Liam, reserve Beater, is now officially Ginny’s favorite teammate. 

She settles into a routine of smiling and saying things like, _No, I haven’t read the book. No, I wasn’t interviewed for it. Probably because Skeeter wasn’t actually interested in truth and gossip is ever so much more entertaining. No, I don’t have a comment on that. Or that. Moran and Byrne are on fire this week, don’t you think?_

They stop asking once she proves to be an abysmal source, and she takes this as a sign that it _will_ all blow over. That this humiliating round of attention will end and everything will be able to go back to normal—her _actual_ secrets still hidden right where they belong.

She should have known how naïve that was. That putting your head in the sand and hoping something goes away rarely actually works. The final proof of how true that is arrives at her flat two days after she returns from the tour.

The very next day is May 2nd.

Which, of course, Skeeter timed the release of the book just perfectly to coincide with the second anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, meaning that nearly every conversation around the date also brings up her bloody book. A perfect storm of influences Ginny could have done without.

She shells out some of her precious savings to get an international portkey just for the afternoon, the date falling on a Tuesday. Her portkey takes her directly to the British Ministry, and she’s just thankful she can make the return trip from anywhere, because the department is crawling with people. Fortunately there is one friendly face in the crowd.

“Hey,” Neville greets her, pushing his way over to her. “Nice to see you.”

“Hi,” she says, hugging him. “Sorry to be so much trouble.”

He shakes his head. “I got the okay from McGonagall to Floo into her office. We won’t even have to go out there.”

And face the press no doubt thronged in the atrium. “Meaning you won’t have to throw your weight around, Mr. Auror?”

“That’s Mr. Auror-in-training,” he corrects.

“Did Luna make it back in time?” she asks as they head for the Floos. 

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s already at Hogwarts with Hannah.”

Ginny nods. It will be her first time back to Hogwarts since she finished school. Fortunately there isn’t much time to dwell on that, Neville leading her to a fireplace. He talks briefly with the attendant, showing paperwork, and then they are both stepping through.

On the other side, they stumble out on the hearthrug of the Headmaster’s— _Headmistress’s_ —office. Ginny glances around. It hasn’t changed much since it was Snape’s, just the addition of a comfortable-looking pair of chairs by the fire, tartan blankets draped across the backs.

“Miss Weasley.”

“Professor,” Ginny says, turning to see McGonagall behind the enormous desk.

The setting seems to waver a moment as Ginny is vividly reminded of a very different day she once stood in front of the professor’s desk. McGonagall, after having seen her with Snape during one of her more tumultuous early Legilimency lessons, wanting to know if the headmaster was ‘inconveniencing her.’

It hadn’t even occurred to Ginny at the time what she might mean by that. What McGonagall clearly suspected. She isn’t even sure what she might have said if McGonagall had been slightly less oblique. Even the Carrows maybe thought that, looking back-- _we all know you have a soft spot for this one…_

The idea of anything like that going on with _Snape_ is so ridiculous as to be laughable. But it’s not like she ever could have told the truth either.

Over McGonagall’s shoulder is a small portrait of the former Headmaster. _Did you know what they were all thinking?  
_

Even if he had, would he have cared?

_People’s perceptions of me only matter when they are useful to me._ That is what he worked so hard to teach her. What that long, endless year taught her one painful lesson at a time.

She lifts her chin, looking away from Snape slumbering in his frame to find both Neville and McGonagall regarding her. 

Neville clears his throat. “Thank you again, Professor.”

“Of course,” she says. “I am only sorry you found it necessary. I did consider banning the book from the castle, but I knew that would only make it more popular.”

Ginny finally finds her voice. “I’m sorry if it’s caused a fuss.”

McGonagall gives her an imperious look as if daring her to disagree with her. “That was not of your doing.”

Ginny nods, looking away.

“Well,” McGonagall says briskly. “I do believe you will find your friends right where you left them.”

Neville thanks her again, and then leads Ginny out of the office.

“Miss Weasley,” McGonagall says.

She turns back. “Yes, Professor?”

“I do hope you know that you will always be welcome at Hogwarts.”

Ginny hears this for what McGonagall no doubt intends it to be—a clear statement that she doesn’t hold with gossip and innuendo. “Thank you, Professor.”

She turns and walks out.

The halls are fairly empty, most students in class. As McGonagall promised, when they arrive in the DA room, they find Hannah, Luna, Tobias, Terry, and Susan already there. Dean, Seamus, Ritchie, and Jimmy are in one corner talking.

All together again.

“Ginny,” Hannah says, pulling her into a hug.

Ginny greets them all, doing her best not to notice if they are looking at her differently. It’s the same thing she wonders every time she sees someone for the first time again these days. _Did you read it? Do you believe it?  
_

Eventually they all settle back on the sofas and chairs, falling into an uncomfortable silence, the occasion itself no doubt hanging heavily over them.

She notices Neville and Hannah sharing a look, Hannah nodding her head as if in encouragement.

“Ginny,” Neville says. “We just wanted to say, that we, um…well...”

“I think what he’s trying to say,” Tobias jumps in, saving Neville from his stammering, “is that everyone knows that book is utter rubbish.”

“Yes,” Neville says, pointing to Tobias. “That.”

The rest of them immediately agree, a few choice words about Skeeter floating about.

Ginny nods, jaw tightening. “And yet, that didn’t stop the Wizengamot from sending me a summons.”

“ _What_?” Tobias says, his head swiveling towards her. She hadn’t even had a chance to write to him about it. Or maybe she just hadn’t wanted to. 

“Yup,” she says, pulling the document she received the day before out of her pocket, official paper and seal heavy in her hands. She passes it off to Tobias, his face thunderous as he skims it.

The thing is, Ginny shouldn’t have been surprised. For _weeks_ the papers have been full of more and more opinion pieces crying for action, for the Ministry to verify what is fact and what is fiction in the books, wanting someone to tell them how afraid they should be, and of whom. Wanting to know what the Ministry is going to do about it.

She still hadn’t seen it coming, too busy keeping her head down and waiting for it to all blow over, like a child. Letting her guard down at the worst moment. She should know better than that, forgetting the very lessons she so painfully mastered in the first place.

“Kingsley will never let this happen,” Neville says when he finished reading it.

“The Wizengamot is an independent body,” Susan points out as she looks over his shoulder. “He doesn’t have any say. The most he can do is stay away as a sign of his disapproval.”

“No one else got one?” Ginny asks.

She knows she was one of the very few of them still young enough to avoid summons during the Great Trials. And maybe that was part of this too. Tobias had his own trial. And Neville, despite the teachers trying to keep them from it, had gone to the Carrows’ trial for all of them.

It’s Ginny and her actions that year that were mercifully left unspoken and unexamined. But not any longer.

They all look around at each other, shaking their heads.

Ginny relaxes, some of the tension leaving her body. That will simplify things at least. “It’s to be me then. I get to be the example.”

“No way,” Neville says, red-faced. “We aren’t going to let that happen.”

“You bloody well are,” Ginny says, voice hard. “The rest of you are going to stay out of this.”

“Or what?” Neville says.

“I’m a bully, remember? I’ll curse you.”

Neville gives her a look. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Seriously,” Ginny says, knowing no amount of blunt force will move him. “I can handle this. Let me play the role I’ve always played.” Her first mistake, after all, was trying to be anything different.

“Ruthless, sneaky, unbeatable terror?” Tobias suggests.

Ginny smiles. “Exactly.”

“Well, now I kind of feel sorry for them,” Terry jokes. 

“Are you saying you have a plan?” Hannah asks.

“I do,” Ginny says, even if it’s more an approach. She knows what she’s going to do. And why. “The last thing I need is one of you lot charging in blindly and throwing that all to hell.” Or accidentally sharing more than she has any interest in ever letting out. 

Neville leans in. “We’re going to be there, every step of the way regardless. The way we’ve always done things.”

“Of course we will,” Luna says. “She’ll need us, even if she can’t see it now.”

Ginny would honestly prefer that none of them were anywhere near that courtroom. She also knows there is no chance of that. “I know I can’t keep any of you from being there. But I handle this my way.”

Neville reluctantly nods, clearly knowing better than to ask for details.

“You’ll tell us though, right?” Hannah insists. “If anything changes, if you need help,”

Ginny squeezes her hand. “Of course.”

Hannah doesn’t seem convinced.

“What?” Ginny says. “I’m a Slytherin. We don’t really do self-sacrifice.”

“Bloody right there,” Tobias grumbles.

There’s a smattering of rolled eyes and laughter in response to that, only interrupted by students beginning to file in as classes for the day finish up.

Under the cover of noise, Ginny catches Tobias’ eye, canting her head towards the door.

Shifting to his feet, he grabs the summons.

“We’ll see you outside,” Ginny says to the others as Tobias falls into step next to her.

More and more students are coming in, many eyeing the collection of ex-DA members with varying levels of awe, like they have already become some sort of storybook characters in the one year they’ve been gone. As she passes by some younger students on her way out, she can’t quite tell if they are regarding her with awe or fear, but that’s a familiar feeling.

Tobias and Ginny walk silently together until they find a quiet corner near the front entrance.

“Have you read it?” she asks.

“No,” he says, fingers flicking some imaginary bit of lint off his robes. “My reading time is far too precious for that rubbish.”

“I need you to,” she says.

He looks at her in surprise.

“I can’t read it myself,” she says. “But I have to know. I can’t go in blind. And I don’t have anyone else…” 

“Of course,” Tobias says.

She blows out a breath, knowing it won’t be a particularly pleasant read for him either. “I’m pretty sure Hermione has a copy if you don’t want to put any money into Skeeter’s coffers.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Okay.”

Their brief moment of privacy ends as they step out onto the lawns. Chairs spread down towards the lake, many of them already full, other groups of people milling about.

“The press may be intense,” Tobias says.

She shrugs. “Can’t be helped.”

He nods, frowning as the wind ruffles his hair. “It’s bloody cold here,” he complains, his arm slipping through hers as if for warmth and not support.

“Wimp,” she says, squeezing his arm tight against her side.

Sure enough, the press catches sight of her almost immediately, but before they can descend on her, a group of girls appear from the castle, forming a perfect crowd around them.

“Mistress,” Astoria says, falling in step next to her.

Ginny glances around, catching sight of Nicola and Hestia and Flora and bright-faced Dale and Dorinda, Gemma slightly behind with two younger girls Ginny doesn’t recognize. She fights back the unexpected press of tears.

“Mistress,” Ginny says back to Astoria.

“Can we escort you to your family?”

Ginny nods.

They stay around her, even once she’s seated with her parents and brothers, surrounding her on all sides, skillfully deflecting anyone’s attempt to get closer.

“I hope you remember this when you’re in that courtroom,” Tobias murmurs. “That you aren’t anywhere near as alone as you seem to think you are.”

Ginny clenches her jaw and looks straight ahead.

Harry is up on stage, looking uncomfortable and taciturn as he sits next to Kingsley. At least this time he won’t be giving a speech. He’d absolutely refused to budge on that, even if he couldn’t quite get out of being up there. She notices that he has ‘forgotten’ to wear his Order of Merlin.

Kingsley’s head is turned towards Harry, apparently saying something, while Harry continues to scan the crowd, his eyes eventually landing on her. She tries her best to smile in response, far too aware of how much scrutiny is on them both, of what she can and can’t afford to do.

And maybe this is how Harry always feels—surrounded by eyes, by people thinking they know him.

The speeches begin then, but other than a somber, meaningful welcome by McGonagall, the rest before Kingsley stands are empty soliloquies on heroism and loss by various distant Ministry members who weren’t there for the battle and probably haven’t set foot in Hogwarts since they graduated, decades past.

It’s never been clearer that this is more about pageantry than real remembrance, and she resents it. Resents the scrutiny and the press and the fact that she can’t just be a sister mourning her brother, or a person mourning her friends. A student mourning her teacher. It all feels tainted. She sits as speech after speech stretches on, quietly seething.

The sun is low in the sky by the time they finish, the blinding sparkle of sun on the lake giving way to deep shadows, the memorial stone nearly lost in the gathering dusk.

She whispers a goodbye to Tobias, giving her sisters a brief thank you, and then slips into the chaos of people getting up and talking and milling about. Her family will be less than pleased that she disappeared so quickly, but she would rather deal with their displeasure than hear their thoughts on the ceremony or the book. She manages to sneak back into the castle, ducking down a side corridor.

She doesn’t breathe easily until she steps into the cloister. It feels smaller, somehow, like maybe the castle has encroached on it again. She wonders if someday it might just disappear all together.

Most things do eventually.

She closes her eyes, breathing slowly, trying to let the peace of this place settle over her.

“Hey,” Harry says, his arms going around her from behind, and she isn’t sure how she didn’t hear him arrive.

She leans back against him. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get away so soon.”

“I was motivated.” 

She turns in his arms, taking a moment just to look at him, everything bubbling terribly just under the surface.

“You okay?” he asks, and she doesn’t know if he means Fred or the press or even just being back here.

“Yeah,” she says. “You?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

He pulls her into a hug, the two of them just standing there for a while, like holding each other is all that’s needed. 

“It’s changed,” he says.

“What?”

“The cloister.”

“Yeah,” she says, “I think it has.”

“Did you ever tell anyone about it?”

“Just Tobias.”

His hand trails down her back, soft and soothing. “Do you think anyone will ever find it? Like you did?”

She’s never told Harry she learned about this place from Tom. For a moment she wonders what he would say if he knew, but it feels horribly wrong to think about Tom here, while she’s here with Harry like this. It always has.

“I don’t know,” she says.

“Maybe it’s one of those things where you find it when you need it.”

It’s a nice thought. “Maybe.”

They fall silent again, their precious moments slipping away as the portkey in her pocket ticks ever closer.

Harry eventually sucks in a breath. “Ginny,” he says, voice heavy as he leans back, his hands framing her face, like he’s trying to find a way to ask her something.

She knows what he wants to say, but she doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to answer questions or think about anything outside this space. So instead she lifts up and kisses him, swallowing up all his words, nearly blinded by relief when he pulls her closer without protest.

She stops thinking at all then, only concentrating on holding on to him as long as she can.

* * *

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ron exclaims, slamming the paper down on the table.

Next to him, Hermione merely presses her lips together, clearly unsurprised by this reaction.

Ron shoves the paper towards Harry in disgust. They’re each taking a turn reading the article dominating the front page. Harry looks down at the headline.

FORMER HOGWARTS STUDENTS TO BE QUESTIONED BY WIZENGAMOT

Right below the headline is a picture of Ginny. Harry tries to focus on the words enough to read the article that has so enraged Ron, but a solid wall of fury seems to be building in Harry’s chest and the words just won’t sit still on the page.

“What exactly is it they’re trying to accuse her of?” Ron demands.

“It’s an inquest, not a trial,” Hermione says.

Ron gives her an incredulous look. “What’s the difference?”

“She hasn’t been charged with anything. It’s just fact-finding.”

“Meaning what exactly? That she doesn’t have anything to worry about? You know, other than being dragged up and humiliated in public?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Hermione hedges. “If they find anything they consider actionable…”

“What could they?” Ron says flippantly. “Even _if_ what that book says was true, which it’s _not_ , Ginny would be the victim wouldn’t she?”

“According to legal code she technically wouldn’t have been—” Hermione starts to say, only to stop when Ron shoots her a furious glance. “Well. The thing is, her relationship with Snape isn’t the only thing the book talked about. It also accused her of…other things.”

Ron scoffs. “Like what? Pranks? Hexing arseholes who deserved it? We’ve all done that and worse.”

“It’s a bit more serious than that. And I’m not saying it might not have been justified, considering the sorts of things that were happening at Hogwarts, or that it’s even true…but she’s accused of brutalizing students. Using illegal magics. Nothing concrete, mind you. But the court might be interested in that as well.”

“That is complete bollocks,” Ron says. “We all saw what she was like when she came back from Hogwarts that year! Who the hell would blame her even if she did fling about a bunch of Unforgivables!”

Ron looks to Harry, clearly wanting some back up of his outrage, but Harry doesn’t really trust himself to do anything other than nod in agreement.

Ever since the publication of that trashy sack of lies, Harry has done his best to keep his temper. Mostly because he knows Ginny would prefer that, not to hear him ranting about something that she has more reason to be angry about than him. But, _god_ , is he angry.

And that was _before_ he found out about the bloody inquest.

He can’t believe they are going to crack everything open again, not when it finally feels like the world is maybe moving on at last. He thinks Ginny would tell him that just makes him naïve.

“What I really don’t understand,” Hermione says, “is that the Wizengamot legally has to give two full weeks notice of a summons. The inquest is next week. Ginny must have already known at the Memorial. Did she say anything?”

Ron shakes his head. “Barely saw her. I assumed she was just trying to avoid the press.”

“Harry?”

He drags his eyes up away from the paper. “No,” he says. Ginny hadn’t said a word to him about a summons. Then again, they hadn’t spent much time talking. They never seem to these days, he’s forced to admit.

He stares down at the picture of Ginny in the paper, her face grim and hard as she walks somewhere with her family and Hermione. He’s fairly sure he’s never seen her look quite that rigid in his entire life.

“Where is this picture from?” he asks, not recognizing it.

Hermione gives him a look at that unaccountably makes him want to squirm. “That’s from the day you were attacked,” she says. Her eyes linger on him, almost as if looking for some sort of reaction.

Harry forces himself to shrug. “Oh,” he says, turning back to his breakfast.

The look on Ginny’s face lingers with him all day.

* * *

“Weasley!”

Ginny pauses as she passes by her coach’s office. They’re spending their bye in intensive training sessions before they head back to England for their next match. The breakneck pace and rigid schedule have been a blessing. Quidditch, as always, is the one constant in her life, something to focus on.

She retreats back a few steps, sticking her head in her coach’s office. “Yeah?”

He waves her inside. “Close the door, will you?”

Ginny does as she’s told, feeling a beat of foreboding. She doesn’t think she’s been particularly horrid on the field lately. Besides which, her coach rarely has any compunction ripping into a player in front of an audience.

“No way to soften this, I suppose, so I’ll just say it.”

Ginny frowns, not moving from her position by the door.

“You’re suspended until further notice.”

The room seems to swivel around her. “What?” she asks, certain she couldn’t have heard him right. “Why?”

“Pretty obvious, don’t you think?”

They’ve already cleared her from practice the one day she has to report to the Wizengamot. They’d said it wouldn’t be a problem.

He flips a copy of a newspaper on the desk between them before leaning back in his chair, like this is all a foregone conclusion.

_MENTALLY UNSTABLE?_ it asks, a picture of her beneath it. She barely makes out the first line in the article-- _“I’m the only lord that matters,” she is said to have once claimed_ \--before her coach speaks again. 

“You’ll still be paid at least,” he says, like that is somehow the point of contention. Like Quidditch hasn’t been the one bloody thing in her life she can count on. The one thing keeping her afloat.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with Quidditch,” she says. Don’t they see that?

“You aren’t that naïve, Weasley, so stop pretending you are. Press matters and you know it.” 

She shakes her head. “Quidditch is about what I can do on the pitch.” About who she is here, not who she was then. They are two different things entirely. They _have_ to be.

His languid disinterest finally gives way as he leans in towards her, his finger jabbing at the paper. “Quidditch is about revenue and championships. And maybe people thinking you’re the next great dark lord whatsit doesn’t hurt us among the not-a-total-moron set, but it’s still a distraction we can’t afford. We need to be focusing on the league standing, on the next match, not paying medical bills for mangled reporters. Right now you and your drama are getting in the way. So we need you gone.”

Ginny straightens, breath shuddering in her chest. God, will the costs of that year never fucking end? Will it never stop coming back to haunt her? How much more is there left to take from her?

He sighs. “Look. You’ll go, you’ll answer their questions, and when it’s done, you’ll come back and work and everyone will forget. Okay? But right now, I need you out of the stadium.”

“Right,” she says.

Without another word she turns and leaves, ignoring everything and everyone as she goes, because it feels as if the entire world is collapsing in on her at once. Every carefully constructed wall crumbling like none of it ever mattered. Like she’s just been deluding herself this entire time.

_You can handle this, Ginny._

For the first time, she feels like maybe she can’t.

* * *

The Sunday before the start of the inquest, Harry waits on the road outside the Burrow, just beyond the edge of the wards. Ginny is due to arrive any time and he wants to catch a moment with her in private first if he can manage it.

Fortunately, before his absence can be noticed, she appears with a pop, Harry blowing out a breath in relief.

“Hey,” he says, striding towards her.

“Harry,” she says, looking around, no doubt to make sure they are unobserved.

He touches her arm. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she says.

He feels like that’s all she said to him for weeks. _I’m fine. Everything’s fine_. He doesn’t believe it. Not anymore. 

“Gin,” he says, pulling her closer. “I just want you to know…I’ll be there. At the inquest. I promise.” He wants her to know that she won’t have to go through this alone. He’ll even try his best not to cause a scene.

Only Ginny doesn’t look comforted by the knowledge. “Harry, no.”

He frowns. “No?”

“Please. It will be…easier if you’re not there.”

“What? Why?” 

She sighs. “Because it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

He stares back at her, nonplussed. “It doesn’t have—how can this not— _of course_ it does!”

“Harry,” she says, exasperation leaking into her voice like he’s being ridiculous, but honestly he feels like he’s the only one here making any sense.

“They’re putting you on trial. What could possibly make you think I wouldn’t be there?”

She tugs her arm free with surprising brusqueness. “You never showed any interest in what happened that year before this,” she snaps. “If you’re suddenly so keen, just read the damn book.”

“Ginny,” Harry says, his voice spiking along with his temper. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Keep your voice down,” she says, glancing towards where her family is on the other side of the hedge. “They’ll hear you.”

“So what if they bloody do?” he shoots back, far too gone at this point to care.

She straightens, reeling back away from him almost like he’s taken a swipe at her. “Don’t you dare,” she hisses. “Don’t you dare pretend that doesn’t matter to you when we both know it does.”

Harry shakes his head, feeling like he’s wandered into some strange nightmare or something, like nothing is making sense at all anymore.

“And it’s not like anyone could blame you for that, not wanting anyone to know,” she continues before he can recover. “Especially now.”

It takes him a moment to realize what she means—now that everyone is revelling in her secrets, lies or not. Now that her face is on the cover of the paper, articles accusing her of all sorts of terrible things. “Ginny, that is _not_ …you think I care what anyone is saying about you?”

“Don’t you?” 

“No!” How could she possibly think he did?

“Then _why_?” she asks, words almost seeming to rip out of her throat, nearly pleading. “Why didn’t you come back to Ireland when I asked? Why have we barely seen each other in months? What is this really all about?”

There is so much hurt layered in her voice that Harry barely knows what to do with it. Has this been there the whole time? 

“I was trying to keep you safe,” he says. That’s all this has ever been about. Doesn’t she see that?

Ginny just shakes her head, brushing it away. “We both know this isn’t about safety, Harry.”

So what, it’s about him being _ashamed_ of her? “Ginny, no,” he says, desperate to make her understand, to not let her spend another second thinking something so completely, horribly wrong.

But Ginny isn’t even looking at him anymore, blowing out a long breath as if trying to steady herself. “I can’t do this right now. Not here.” Smoothing down her hair, her face transforms as her back straightens, everything wiping away under a calm, icy mask, and that just makes everything a thousand times worse. “Let’s just get through this dinner. We can talk about this later.”

She doesn’t wait for him to answer, just turns and walks away, escaping into the garden. Running away from him. 

He watches her go, adreneline thrumming unpleasantly through his body, leaving him nearly shaking from the dawning realization of what he probably should have been smart enough to notice a really fucking long time ago—that this secret has become some great festering thing between them. It doesn’t matter now why they’ve done it, what he thought she understood, none of it seems to matter in the face of her quiet devastation, every one of his justifications crumbling and falling away.

He’s done with it.

It’s with that thought that Harry lets his instincts take over from his brain and do what is probably the stupidest thing he ever could. He follows Ginny into the garden, quickly catching up to her, only vaguely registering people nearby calling out in greeting.

Grabbing Ginny’s arm to swing her around, Harry pulls her close and kisses her firmly right there in front of her entire family.

Predictably, she hexes him.

He knows it’s coming from the look on her face as she shoves him away, hand snaking into her pocket in a move so quick everyone else probably misses it. But then he is lying on the ground, his legs useless bags of jelly as she storms off.

Not his best idea ever, all things told.

He stares up at the clouds crossing the sky until George’s face eventually leans into view. “Harry, mate. I could have told you trying to kiss our sister is a dangerous business.”

Harry sighs, covering his face with his hands. “A bit late, that advice.”

“By nearly a year,” Hermione says from nearby, something insufferably smug in her voice.

“Three,” Harry corrects absently, thinking of that first charged summer day, oh so many years before.

“ _What_?”

Harry peers up through his fingers to see Ron’s shocked face. He isn’t really sure what to say. _Sorry I’ve been snogging your sister for ages without mentioning it?_

George is looking down at Harry with a furrowed brow. “You can’t really mean— You and… But Ginny’s—” He waves his hand inarticulately as if he can’t quite come up with a word to describe Ginny.

Harry’s head lifts with a jerk, all of his anger flaring back to life at once. “Ginny’s _what_?” he demands, voice dripping with aggression.

Hermione murmurs something under her breath, the feeling rushing back into Harry’s legs with irritating pins and needles. He pops up to his feet, stepping right up to George, stupidly taking his anger out on probably the last person he should.

“Brilliant?” he snaps. “Beautiful? Deranged? Damn well near perfect?”

George’s eyebrows fly up. “I was going to say, ‘Too good for you’.”

“Damn right,” Harry says, wondering what the hell he’s going to do now.

A door slams, and Ron looks up with alarm. “Bloody hell, she’s coming back.”

Harry turns to see Ginny storming towards him, wand still in hand.

“You had no right to do that to me,” she very nearly yells. Her rage is such that the rest of them take a step back, all of them so unused to seeing Ginny Weasley actually lose her temper.

Harry’s the only one stupid enough to step closer. “To _us_ ,” he corrects.

“Bloody hell, Harry,” he hears Ron mutter.

“What?” Ginny demands. She rarely lets herself get really mad—is far too controlled and deliberate for that—but when she finally gets worked up, it’s fairly spectacular to behold. And scary as hell.

She’s admitted to Harry before that he’s the only one who can ever get her to this point anymore. He used to think maybe that was a good thing.

He takes a breath. “You mean I had no right to do that to _us_.”

She stills for a moment, her face almost seeming to swell with rage, and Harry knows whatever she’s about to say is going to be bad. “Us? I wasn’t aware there was an us. Just you sneaking into my flat at night to shag.”

Harry refuses to look at Ginny’s brothers or, _oh, god_ , her parents who he dearly hopes were too far out of earshot for that.

“Yes, Ginny,” he bites out, unable to understand how she can say such blatantly twisted things, let alone _believe_ them. “There is an us.”

Her arms cross over her chest. “Oh, really. Since when?”

Now Harry has reached the end of his tether, and the very last thing he means to do is say it this way, but he’s never controlled his temper as well as Ginny.

“Pretty much since I was barmy enough to fall in love with you!” he fairly shouts.

She stares at him, looking stunned.

Harry slaps a hand over his face. “Merlin, Gin. You make it so difficult sometimes.”

“Sorry about that,” she says, quickly recovering. “I’m sure there are lots of _pleasant_ witches out there. Just take your bloody pick.”

He winces.

She stomps back towards the Burrow again, but Harry’s had enough, catching up and stepping in front of her. She moves as if to go around him and he puts his hands up, even knowing he risks getting hexed again. “Yes, I just buggered this up, I get that. But I don’t think that’s what you’re really mad about. This is about that stupid book and its lies and the fact that you have to go to that ridiculous trial.”

“The _book_?” she says. “I couldn’t care less about it.”

He knows that is a lie. “Stop it,” he says, barely resisting the impulse to shake her. “Stop trying to pretend none of this matters.”

“It doesn’t matter!” she says, throwing her arms up in the air. “They can say whatever they like about me. You think I care?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “I think you do care. Or you wouldn’t be so angry.”

He’s throwing her own words back at her and he can see she realizes it too, something flashing in her eyes before she visibly swallows the emotion back. The fact is, she’s being irrational, which is completely unlike her.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. 

“I know I left,” he says, jabbing a finger towards the road. “I know I went away and hid in a forest and fumbled around for months. You were the one who stayed. You went into that school run by Death Eaters and you did what you had to, not just to survive, but to hold them together, to protect as many students as you could. Even though everyone told you it was over. I know you did that.”

Neville had said as much.

“You were _sixteen_ , Ginny. So which of us was really the hero?”

“He’s right,” Arthur says. Harry looks up to see that her parents have crossed the garden, everyone now standing around them watching the drama unfold.

Ginny laughs, something hard and fractured and horrible to hear. “No, he’s not. But the fact that he thinks that says a lot. Anyone who looks at me and sees a hero is deluding themselves.”

Harry himself has always had a problem with the term hero, so he can’t really blame her. But that’s not the point. “So you’re not a hero. That means, what, that you _deserve_ this?”

“And if I do?” she shoots back, something almost wild in her eyes.

He throws his hands up. “How could you _possibly_ deserve this?”

She shakes his head like he’s being thick. “This is exactly why I don’t want you there.”

“Why?” he asks.

She looks him straight in the eye, and it’s a bit like that picture in the paper, like she has nothing in the world left to lose. “Because they’re going to ask me what I did that year, and maybe I’ll tell them. Every tiny damning detail.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. Because you don’t have a clue what really happened that year. What I did. What I was _willing_ to do.” Her chin lifts, expression hardening. “All these years, did you tell yourself Crabbe fell down those stairs by himself? By _accident_?”

Harry is struck silent by that, by what she seems to be admitting.

She must see something of it on his face too, because she nods her head as if she’s been proven right. “You all like to pretend, to imagine me as some good little girl who just happened to end up in Slytherin by a fluke. You always have. But you’re wrong. None of you have any idea what I am capable of.” She straightens up, her back nearly rigid. “You may not be a killer, Harry. But I could be.”

He can’t help but remember that look on her face as she saw the damage to his side for the first time. _If he weren’t already dead, I would kill him myself._

They all stare back at her in horror, and in the silence, she seems to realize just what she’s said and how much of an audience she has.

She takes a step back. “The truth is, you don’t have any idea who I really am.”

Harry shakes his head, feeling winded with how fast this has all spiraled out of control. “You can’t really believe that.”

She lifts a shoulder as if it’s not a big deal, but her expression is painful to look at. “It doesn’t matter what I believe,” she says. “Because I’m done. Whatever this was. It’s done.”

“Ginny,” he says, horror filling his stomach. He reaches for her, but she steps away from the touch, her hand lifting to fend him off.

“It’s over,” she says, only the slightest break in her voice. She turns and runs up the steps.

In his shock, Harry just stares after her and tries to remember how to breathe.

_Over_.

The door closes behind her with a quiet click, but Harry flinches as if she’d slammed it.

_No._

He surges up the steps, ready to slam into the house after her, to _demand_ that she take it back, but he’s pulled to a stop by a hand on his arm.

“Going in there right now isn’t going to do anyone any good,” Bill says, voice mild even as his fingers dig in.

Harry turns to him with violence in his heart, his breath coming out in great wrenching bursts. It doesn’t seem to matter that Bill is taller and at least a stone heavier, that he’s Ginny’s brother. He feels completely wild in the moment.

Bill sees it too, his hand tightening. “Harry,” he says, and he may as well have hit him, the pity he manages to layer in there.

Harry rips his arm free. But rather than storming towards the house, he takes a few stumbling steps back, knowing he has to get out of here before he loses it completely.

Spinning on his heel, he strides away from the Burrow, ignoring Hermione’s voice calling after him, the looks on Arthur and Molly’s faces as he pushes past them.

_It’s over._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "Reign of Terror" by Rita Skeeter (Annerb Armistice Series)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20493359) by [RunawayMarbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayMarbles/pseuds/RunawayMarbles)




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